


Hypodermic Transgression

by NxnsxgnorsDxmon



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Adorable, Adult Content, Adulthood, Adults, Aftermath, Aftermath of Possession, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Aftermath of a Case, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Priests, American Horror Story - Freeform, American Horror Story References, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Better Than Canon, Better Than Fifty Shades of Grey, Better than Twilight, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Cameos, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Christmas Smut, Cute, Cutesy, Declarations Of Love, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Drama & Romance, Drug Withdrawal, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epic Friendship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Protagonist, Fights, First Love, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Golden Lovers, Gore, Growing Old, Heavy Angst, Heterosexual Character, Heterosexual Sex, Heterosexuality, Horror, Hot, Hot Chocolate, Hot Sex, Idiots in Love, Inspired By American Horror Story, Inspired by American Horror Story: Asylum, Light Angst, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, Loving Marriage, Major Character Injury, Male Antagonist, Male Protagonist, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Meet-Cute, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Murder, No Sex, Non-Graphic Smut, Nuns, Older Characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV Female Character, Past Character Death, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, Pregnancy, Priest Kink, Priestesses, Priests, Psychoanalysis, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Psychology, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, References to Drugs, Religion, Religion Kink, Retrospective, Romance, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Gestures, Romantic Soulmates, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Sweet, Sweet/Hot, Tea, Threats of Violence, True Love, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Sex, Violence, nunsignor, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2020-10-25 08:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 118,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NxnsxgnorsDxmon/pseuds/NxnsxgnorsDxmon
Summary: ✝Monsignor Timothy Howard x Fem! ®eader✝×Trigger Warning For Sexual ©ontent, Strong Language, Violence, Blood×What is actually Hypodermic Transgression? Or rather, transgressing against the once solemnly took vows as a pious member of the church, bloodthirstily devoting its life to the church and insurmountably altering its own private life?You're a former drug dealer with a tough past, whose past depended on the transgressions which risked your life until your rationality rescues you from the hazard world of the drugs and crimes. One night, while hanging out with your fewest old, loyal friends in the local Boston bar, all of a sudden a contemporary foe is the reason for a bar fight and your false institutionalization in one of the most infamous madhouses of Boston against your will and losing the celestial freedom.Last but not least, the roller coaster is altered in even more dynamic and unpredictable. Are you actually fated for the rest of your days to be a prisoner of mental illness, faked by your foe or somebody significant will be responsible for your release?





	1. Bar Fight, Beer and Bloody Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Axelex12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axelex12/gifts).

** **

**Author's Note: That is my first ever story with a fictional character x reader. Please, bear with me with my imperfections, when it comes up to writing. Furthermore, I've noticed that there are like a few stories with Timothy x reader even Jude x reader, consequently I couldn't help but the decision of mine being enforced. Boom! A Female Reader x Timothy Howard book! Especially for these who're suckers for Timothy, slowburns or priest kink even all, that's what I'm exactly recommending you to check out. I hope you like and enjoy the first chapter, although it's simply like prologue.**

**Last but not least, I've longed for awhile to write this story and I may update it whenever I feel inspired to keep it updated, in fact, I've a couple of more projects to edit like Wings of Light, Possible Second Chance and the one-shot series. **

**Warning: E/C= Eye Color, Y/N= Your Name, H/C= Hair Color!**

\--- ******* \---  
\---_ 24th of October, 1964 _\---

Every single day of the year and your fresh, young life felt like the rough texture of stomp, trouncing smoothly through the luxurious carpet of crispy autumn leaves. Beneath your shed feet the elapsing days from the week, the month, the year even more the rabidly progressing years and decades. They're phenomenally inexorable and they're part of your existence. Just like everybody else. The mortals have had their own days whether to feel the potent aura of elation, swaddling them in a cozily warm blanket as newborns or on the contrary, the worse even the worst days of their lives, freezing to death like strayers. Their existence was almost ceased as if it depended of their physical and mental stamina. Sooner or later, everyone of us is aiming whether to the heaven's celestially golden gates and joining the rich army of angels and servants of God, who have hardly sinned ever in their mortal lives. Or otherwise, the sinners' new home. Literally the searing depths of hell with every servant of Satan even incarnation of the vile. Vile essences dwelling in the most profound caverns of the underworld.

The winter was approaching within two months only. The mid-autumn weather was whistling and looping its own ballad overally in Boston. The heavy rains, the fresh and alluring scent of fresh life and the season were the common symptoms, encountered in every episode of the fall. Sometimes the wind was excessively slapping and fanning the surroundings’ exposed fleshes. The sun was usually smiling vibrantly to everything below and swaddling it in a warm, saturating blanket, providing comfort and light to everything. The heinous clouds maliciously obscured the beaming sun with storms and heavy rain, frowning and discoloring everything below.

Tonight you decided to fool around with some of your friends in a local Boston bar after having a tough, fatiguing day at work as a waitress, disputing with certain capricious, frustrated clients who were bugging you off to bones though your attempts with great deal of nonchalance to balance and harmonize the ambience which was still muddling the intension. You’ve been always amiable and open-minded even generous to the clients, diligently doing your work, regardless how stern was your boss or certain clients were brashly cocksure and narrow-minded.

Moreover, your career as a waitress was still ongoing for a year after fleeing Silver Spring, Maryland, in order to escape the hazard world of drugs and crimes with the immense fortune you’ve earned after you and some of your former classmates that were involved in the hazard business. You didn’t have many friends though some of your former classmates that were also business partners with you and selling illegally galore variety of drugs to the customers and thanks to the traded products the fortune was beaming to you with the brilliant reward of luxurious pile of dollars you’ve scarcely ever seen in your life, they were no longer keeping in touch with you after starting everything from the beginning in Boston. On your way to the small city of Massachusetts from the small town of Maryland, you eventually fathomed the sequence of the drug dealer’s short-time business you’ve been involved with a couple of your peers. The ginormous fortune you’re currently possessing was for emigrating somewhere else where nobody knows you by purchasing your own property and afford anything you’d want more than anything although the questionable quantity of money.

A year ago, Boston, the small city of Massachusetts was readily foreign to you as if you’re travelling in another country where the general population didn’t have any idea who you’re actually unlike your birth town. In Silver Spring, Maryland, where your heart was eventually belonging since your existence, you’re one of the most infamous and youngest drug dealers, known for your ethereally strong participation in a notoriously outlaw organization and most of all, keeping in touch with the cook and his minions.

You’re the only family member from your roots, who’s still striving to survive in the crudely cold, huge world. Your parents were already deceased after joining high school and thereafter your grandparents were the sole responsible family members to look after you as an only child. Although your grandparents passed away two years ago after acknowledging your infamous status of a drug dealer, subsequently they were deadly worried about you and your future even restlessly phoning the police to bring you back in their property, despite their raw fiascos. Within a couple of weeks, they’re both passing away due to the inexorable heart attack once they acknowledged for serial time the authorities’ attempts to find you and arrest you for your stormy, blowminding hard work and efforts in the illicit business.

Once you’re back at your grandparents’ property to have a farewell with them for last time, the last thing you’ve beheld just moments before accomplishing your plotted plans for fleeing in another city and state in the same time was the emptiness and the lethal silence, overtaking the one-story, dilapidating house where your adolescence was spent during your high school years. Nobody has informed you about their haphazard demises until your childlike inquisitiveness and fiery impulse persuaded you to research inside the remnants of your adolescence’s nest, finding a note, recognizing the familiar manuscript that constructed each word up to each paragraph, separating every single moment and the thousand patterns of emotions and feelings, poured in the sheet of paper just minutes before their deaths.

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _Flashback _\---

\--- _Two Years Earlier_ \---

\--- _8th of October, 1962 _\---

_After finishing with the dirty work and the tremendous wealth was already battered in your both stark hands, afterwards just before taking your grandparents’ cab to flee wherever the destination takes you and utterly controlled by you the direction you take, your timid, meek footsteps were echoing against the threshold of your grandparents’ godforsaken, dilapidating one-story house after stomping the luxurious carpet of crispy, multicoloured leaves after tumbling down from the barren trees, your {eye color} jewels landed on the iron doorknob, your petite, ungloved hands trembling due to the chilly nocturnal weather were swathed inside your dark ripped jeans’ pockets. Your chapped, plumpish lips glimmered thousand patterns of your disheveled appearance after your hard work and the thick layer of perspiration, stickily clung to your facial skin and clamminess battering your palms. The heart rates increased rapidly rabid, scarcely acknowledging the sequence of entering in your grandparents’ cabin for last time and spending with their eventual final moments the elapsing, limited time you’re ensured just before the police passed through the desolated neighbourhood and catch you in the big trouble you’ve brought by yourself and your business partners. _

_The endangerness was balefully intimidating you to give up with selling drugs after the product were extraordinarily produced by your boss and dumping the fraudulent occupation sooner than later before your wrists were violently cuffed by iron handcuffs, hostile cops dragging you to the shrilling elegiac soundtrack of sirens-clad police car and the judge sentencing you to spend the rest of your young adulthood behind the jail bars and the unrequited young adulthood being spent inside the pitch-black darkness instead the altruistic freedom scoop you with open arms in a warm embrace. _

_The pungent reek of urine, human odor and mold were inhaled by your sensitive, flexible nostrils, grinding your elegant jaw with the silent ballad of your gritted ivory teeth. An eerie flat line was brushing your chapped lips. Neither a smile, nor a frown was decorating your cherub lips. _

_Nobody was by your side to flee together for wherever you drive the vehicle which is the sole alternative to escape the vicious claws of the authorities. _

_An hour abided until midnight and you’re already donned in the attires of invincible weariness, but you couldn’t give up easily. After one of your petite, weathered hands managed to reach down for the iron doorknob and turning it, the failure of opening the locked front door was keeping your wits about your grandparents have already drifted off asleep. Howsoever, it was never too late to search for them and conversate them even if it’s three o’clock in the morning, snapping them out of their beauty coma. _

_Your other hand that was lingering inside your dark pair of ripped jeans’ profound pocket fumbled idly, clumsily for the keys you had such as car keys, your birth house and grandparents’ cabin even the underground basement. Moistening deliciously your plump, rosy-coloured lips after manipulating to twirl and circle your tongue to prong the lower and upper lips courageously, consequently you retrieved the only keys you’ve had and inserted the rusty, silver key in the keyhole, whereas your hand was still gripping the doorknob until with a single click the door swung opened and sandstorm of dust wobbled up to your petite-frame. The subsequence of your dry, dehydrated cough and the obnoxious, daredevil dust toying with your button nose stunned you for a single second, ducking your head to evade the sandstorm of dust. _

_“Damn!” The hoarseness in your Maryland lilt didn’t fade away after the cough and dehydration for not consuming a single sip of liquid to hydrate your organs and throat were cusping and persistently feuding with your health condition. _

_In the meanwhile, you lifted up your gaze to meet the metaphorically ironic warm welcome you’re embraced after your leather ankle boot-clad feet crunched against the notoriously creaky wooden planked flooring. The curtains were closed, obscuring any further light to bath the room in modicum of light. Ebony darkness was dancing in a circle in the living room. _

_What the initial thought bubbled up in your vortex of thoughts was that Claudia, your grandmother and Todd, your grandfather were already asleep and their initial reaction of validating the unfamiliar presence was startling even have a sudden heart attack. _

_The fatal hush which was playing on a loop was tingling trouble to your petite, sensitive ears and your {eye color} embers stung widened in agitation as if you’re anticipating haphazardly a cop or an outlaw to leap beside you and play their cards right. Every background noise was distractingly terrifying for you especially when you’re all alone and you didn’t have much time to accomplish the final quests you had in the small city of Maryland. _

_“Grandma?” The bashfulness punctured your whisper, almost dying on your strawberry-coloured, dry tongue after your one of your weathered hands fumbled childishly clumsy for the light switch to turn the lights on, barely averting the perpendicular stare at the direction, aimed to the untouchedly shut doors.”Grandpa?” After your lukewarm fingertips pressed the light switch coyly within a couple of seconds the light bulb brightened in brass, throughout illuminating in artificial saturating yellow light the desolated living room. Meanwhile, your young-looking, porcelain complexion grimaced with a baffled frown, smeared across your roseate lips. _

_After inspecting warily the living room with your agitatedly coy footsteps, what it bulked you was a plain sheet of paper, dumped on the dusty, smeared in filth and grubby, roughly obnoxious textured with dried blood-stains round table. _

_Your spider pale fingers lingered on the flimsy note, snatching it boldly from the table and darting your {E/C} embers to the familiar manuscript, taking your time to peruse and examine the genuine notion of every word and every paragraph poured in the note._

_Dear {Y/N},_

_It may be our last words but no matter what you’ve been through and the tempest of policemen looking for you, you’ll be always the most loved person by us and taking an enormous room in our hearts forever even when we’re no longer with you! No matter if you’re a drug dealer yet and befriending with the people who made you to choose the wrong path in your life even being the real reason to drop out of your school scarcely at age seventeen, you’re our one of a kind Sunshine and you’ll be always our one of a kind ray of sunshine we’ve looked after. _

_I can still remember the day when you lost your parents due to cancer and our small pension wasn’t enough to feed three of us in this small household even to ensure you enough school equipment and clothes which you yearn to purchase, regardless with whose money. On one hand, I’m strongly against that illegal business you’re involved in, but on other hand I’m still by your side even though the thousand of dollars you’re currently own will help you to afford anything whatever you need to continue your survival as the only survivor from our family. _

_The day we took you in our small household was one of the days when you needed the most comfort, love, warmness and understanding at age fifteen. What an irony of the fate for an adolescent! _

_Anyway live your own life {Y/N} and enjoy your young adulthood. Be ready for every fight with everybody who is more than ready to destroy you, due to their tremendous hatred and jealousy of your uniqueness! Never allow anybody to let you down just because of your failures and mistakes! Chin up and stay strong {Y/N}!_

_With big love from your grandma and grandpa, Claudia and Todd_

_A lot of kisses and hugs_

_“No, no! This must be impossible!” After the pads of your slim, long as flute stings’ fingers bashfully tipped the sheet of paper, crystalline, uncontrollably ruthless tears rimmed your {E/C} orbs which were fixated on every paragraph. Your heart was tearing off on trillions of frail, glassy pieces as if you’re maliciously, furiously busking off a mere, extravagant cloth with your fashioned in balled fists hands. Vaguely woeful smile bloomed upon your parchment, youthful complexion. What your seventeen-year-old side didn’t want to confront and assimilate was Claudia and Todd no longer inhabiting not only their own cabin, moreover the ginormous mortal world. What your contrition was rigidly texturing your torn off heart was not being able to behold Claudia and Todd ever again and not being able to see them earlier just before their final minutes to have a heart attack and kick the bucket. _

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _End of Flashback_ \---

“{Y/N}, you okay?” Dana, one of your friends snapped you out of your reverie, subsequently dwelling out of the reverie realm in a jiffy after nudging you skeptically.

“Oh y-yes, I’m Dana!” The hoarseness in your merry, half-hearted snicker didn’t vanish after shifting your attention to the redhead, promptly holding your stare with her.

You, Dana, Frederic and Barb were gathered altogether on a separate table in the most abysmal, isolated corners of the bar after ordering for yourselves bottles of beer with diversity of brands, depending on its owner.

It’s been awhile since you’ve reunited with your oldest, most loyal friends since high school except Dana and Barb, who were always next to you since your early childhood. Although you quitted the risky world of drugs and crimes, they’ve never dumped you like the rest of the cook’s minions, besides Dana, Barb and Frederic were with a few years your seniors and you could always count on them and reckon their aid.

Eventually your childhood friend Dana was approximately in her early twenties with neck length bob hair. Freshly crispy, soft ginger strands framing her round, oval profile with her alabaster skin tone, donning her youthful muscles. Her body structure was graciously slender and her height was circa 5’3. Further, the older lady wasn’t a keen fan of wearing make-up and she’d rather appreciate the natural beauty which hasn’t faded with the relentlessly elapsing time. Her lips were subtly cherub, gracefully matching with her round, feline lapis lazuli jewels which caged inside abundance of paradoxal secrets. Last but not least, her fashion style was gothic modish and combining usually darker nuances of red, purple and blue.

Unlike Dana Schwartz whose roots were German with slight mix of Canadian, Barb was with bronze tanned skin tone, graciously highlighting her feminine, smooth facial features and averagely constructed figure. Her roots weren’t American at all, factly, her parents are Mexican emigrants, who aren’t satisfied with their lifestyle in the southern country at all, thus making the final decision to emigrate somewhere where the climate is sufficiently bearable and colder. Barb Summer’s age was exactly parallel to the German-Canadian compatriot though the couple of months difference in their scarce age gap. The other older lady’s lion mane of silken ebony tresses were cascading and flaring fiercely across her mid-back and framing exquisitely her full, round profile. Her dark eyebrows were suitably, ironically matching with her round, huge indiscernible coffee brown pools. Notwithstanding her Latin background, she always was donned in warmer nuances of yellow and orange attires, outstandingly matching with her profile. Last but not least, Barb Summer was slightly taller than the German-Canadian with a handful of inches.

Frederic, one of the fewest loyal friends of yours was a young gentleman in his mid-twenties with dark blonde hair, intriguingly matching with his jade green pools and his thin lips. The older man was approximately standing 6’2 with leanly muscly anatomy, contoured beneath the garments which were guarding his epidermis. His family is actually coming from Michigan, despite their emigration in Maryland and the eventual expatriation of Frederic in the small city of Massachusetts surreptitiously, in order to not upset his old high school buddy and somehow to surprise her. His full name was Frederic Blake.

The bar wasn’t crowded by ocean of strangers at all. It was rather one of the cheapest in the entire small city of Massachusetts. The speaker’s background music was droning and tingling melodious tunes to the customers and the bartender.

“_She wore blue velvet__! __Bluer than velvet was the night__! __Softer than satin was the light__ from__ the stars__!_” Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton was recently playing on the speaker as his eloquently chanting voice was accenting the resonance in the beginning of the lyrics.

“I didn’t have any clue, it’s going to be that cool to work on the gas station and refill the fuel of the clients’ cars!” After the blonde’s chilly, meaty fingers were playing absently with the frail glass of his bottle of beer, afterward he lugged up the bottle to sip from the weak alcoholic beverage emphatically until a blatant belch slipped from his beer-stained, wet tongue and earning your and the ginger’s piercing, heinous glares, transfixed on his abruptly softened facial attributes. “What is wrong, ladies?” The unpredictable, megawatt hush was stretching the stings of your tongues, opting to conjugate vowels and syllables, throughout formulating pair of words and constructing them in an utterance. A quirk twisted across his dark, thick eyebrows after glancing at you and the German-Canadian, whose glare was far from affable, creamily open-minded at all. “Cat got your tongue?” The mockery, accentuating his Michigan lilt was followed by femininely rebuking hisses, tingling trouble to him and vague powder of blush tinging his well-defined, chubby cheeks.

“Your belch, Frederic! Damn!” At the moment, the Mexican compatriot managed to dump her bottle of beer on the square table as her elvish, creamy hand lowered to his thigh, fashioning in a kindhearted, mischievous slap. “You know how much Dana and {Y/N} despise somebody to belch into their faces.”

“It’s just a belch and,” The older man peered behind him to scan in the corner of his jade green eye the entire bar’s interior, while you managed to cross your arms across your chest, barely averting your glare. “Nobody cares! I’m sure your parents whenever they were in the bar or a restaurant have farted or burped smugly at least, Miss Dana Schwartz!” The lavish sarcasm, spotlighting Frederic’s utterance after turning to confront your and the ginger’s scintillating eyeing, it didn’t break his facial expression to despondent or galled.

“Yeah but that was a long time ago and I was like a little girl when that happened.” The rebuking sharpness, puncturing the redhead’s retaliation taunted the Michigander’s dry, reckless snicker, dancing on his tongue. “It’s not funny, Frederic! It was rather tragic when my parents were humiliating me and themselves with their uncontrollable needs.”

“_She wore blue velvet__! __Bluer than velvet were her eyes__! __Warmer than May her tender sighs__! __Love was ours__!_”

“Do it at home instead making scenes in front of the people like a clown.” Barb’s elvish, soothingly lukewarm hand managed to reach for the Michigander’s broad, leanly toned shoulder and her fingers fashioned flatly in a slap, swatting his leather fabric and squinting up her indiscernible chocolate brown irises at Frederic. “It’s not a circus! It’s a bar!” In the interval, Dana and your glares softened meekly as yours hypodermically chilly, slim fingers lingered curled around the glassy bottle and lugging it up to gulp a tiny soar sip from the brown weak liquor, scorching the corners of your mouth and throat.

“You’re goddamn right, Barb!” Suddenly {Y/N} snapped after slamming your beverage on the table, tilting your chin and landing your {E/C} irises on the Mexican, licking greedily, gamely your beer-smeared roseate, plumpish lips with manipulating the twirl and revolve your tongue emphatically. “But Frederic is just Frederic. He’s unchangeable.” Spreading your hands foiledly in the air, your tongue clicked seconds before crafting the words.

“I’m unchangeable if I’m with friends or the ones who love and accept me for who I’m, {Y/N}, because I’m not obligated to be somebody who I’m not with the particular people,” In the interim, the notorious drug cook of Maryland, Cole Derek Lowe’s mammoth, icily hand’s fingers braced, maneuvering the grasp around the nape of your neck, sensing the sixth sense of your former boss’s non-consensual touch grazing the delicate, {S/C} skin of the nape of your neck. The electrifying dew of bristled goosebumps prickled your upward and downward epidermis of your legs and arms. The heart rates overkeenly increased and the mind-numbing drums in your throbbing chest, hesitantly gnawing on the raw spot of your lower lip to stifle a whimper or any distracting, reluctant sound. “{Y/N}, look behind you!”

“Cole!” The other women emitted a frustrated guttural croak, scratching their throats, grimacing momentarily their young-looking, parchment complexions after apprehensively squinting up at your former boss, whose murderous ire and morbid adrenaline were pulsating into his bulky figure. Unbelievable ablaze umbrage was pumping into his veins and erupting promptly the overflowing lava in his capillaries. The symphony of Frederic, Dana and Barb puncturing their flabbergast the fate somehow unspeakably reunite with nobody else than their foe, who used to boss them and one day after former minions of the scientist have discovered galore opulence of pornographic photographs of underaged girls and women who haven’t consented, thereafter cat got their tongues. “You dirty old pervert!” Your bottom plump lip trembled at the roar of your high school friend, attempting to confront the scientist. “{Y/N}, do not turn! Do not trust your instincts to face him!” Hostile growl was spotlighting the middle-aged gentleman’s antagonism with your horde of friends.

“_Ours a love I held tightly__! __Feeling the rapture grow__ like__ a flame burning brightly__! __But when she left, gone was the glow of__!_” Beehive of prying gawks were darted to the isolated corner of the bar which transmuted in a battlefield.

Once you turned demurely hesitant, stilling your front marbled teeth chewing your lip and shifting your attention to the middle-aged man, whereas one of your marbled petite, quenched due to the delightful contact with the weak liquor hand was clawing the beer bottle until the pads of Cole’s fingers opted grasped tighter your neck, incapable of breathing adequately for a single second, flickering up widened your eyes to maintain the resentful eye contact with your foe. What it oddbally questioned you was since you, Dana, Barb and Frederic have alienated from the drug cook and you aren’t up to bringing back the past, jumpcutting to the present and living for the future to unwind your divine opportunities as fresh muscles to craft your success and wounding yourself with the mistakes due to your lacking experience and knowledge in certain sphere, how he picks on you instead either somebody else from your inner circle. An antagonizing, fierce frown flattened downward your cherub lips and drinking with your {E/C} embers the fountain of emotions, flaming Cole’s cocoa brown embers.

“It’s unbelievable such charlatans like you betrayed me.” Seconds before suffocating you with his meaty fingers, he shot a piercing, baleful glare to your older buddies through his bared teeth until Frederic readjusted his seat to charge up towards the older man and your fingers grappled the rim of the bottle subtly, vainly and hiding it under the table, out of Cole’s sight. “No wonder who is in huge trouble after finding you here in Boston! How pathet-“ All of a sudden, the young man charged and rased down the scientist, pinning his fubsily bulky body with his dumbfoundingly lean muscular anatomy, bleating a begrudging groan after the breath coursed up his lungs. Meantime, Cole’s mammoth, nefariously icy hands reached for the blonde’s neck, suffocating him until your childhood friends and you lifted up your rears from your seats, subsequently intervening as you attempted to smash the bottle of beer into your former boss’s head by whisking swiftly and balefully until the Michigander flumped backward, reclining against the table with the clattering choir of flinched frailly glassy beer bottles and the older gentleman tricksterly denuding the beer bottle from your hands and whisking noxiously past you, while guarding the Mexican and German-Canadian to be the one to take the bullet for them instead blaming yourself for the rest of your days after the incident the mauve tints, accompanied by dried bloody stains and scraps mapping their fleshes.

“Do not touch the girls, cunt!” Whilst Frederic was partly unconscious, rubbing his head after reluctantly hitting the table with his delicate fingertips, he mewled a rebuking caution. In the meantime, the drug cook straightened his posture from the ground as he kicked in the groins your childhood friends after their failed attempts to pin his large-frame and the last thing you could do was ducking to dodge the attempted smack with bottle until he stabbed your knee to weaken your stamina, ebbing out physically and subsequently mentally. “Damn it! You won’t get away for any longer with your horseshit, Cole!”

“Try again, fanny!” Afterwards you, Dana and Barb were almost senseless, crouching down while stoicly shrieking and opting to remove the stabbed partly broken bottle in your forearm, while Barb and Dana crawled awkwardly to manage their hands, manipulating their knees to lurch, brushing them against the dusty, pasty floor.

“Mister, we won’t serve your kindness anymo-“ The last thing before you were senseless was eavesdropping the barman’s acrimonious caution to the middle-aged man with sharp timbre, emphasizing his seriousness until the vehement stomp of Cole’s feet kneaded your mid-back, consequently losing consciousness in a jiff.

“I haven’t finished with all of you especially {Y/N}! I called a special institution that is going to take a good care of you.” Suddenly your eyelids snapped shut, whereas the older ladies and the gasman were lingering on the floor, scarcely having any strength to straighten their postures and avenge your former boss for the sequence of the bar fight. What it was oblivious for the drug cook was the barkeeper’s menaces, heading to the front door and dumping the wounded figures on the floor as if nothing has happened, situated in the bar.

“_Blue velvet__! __But in my heart there'll always be__! __Precious and warm, a memory__ t__hrough the years__ a__nd I still can see blue velvet__ t__hrough my tears__!_”


	2. Brass Kismet

** **Author's Brief Note: I'd like to thank you for all positive feedbacks and immense support in the first chapter which was rather prologue. Do not get me wrong, however, it's not my second nature to write with a fictional character x reader book which is slightly difficult task, due to the POVs or rather altering the perspective. It truly means a lot to me and it keeps me refreshed to update this book more often. Moreover, Wings of Light's new chapter hasn't been started yet and so I'm keeping your wits about the mild delay in its regular updates, in fact, I'm supposed to update it once a week. ** **

****✟**** ****I hope you like and enjoy the second chapter where the interesting part begins after the foreshadowing retrospection! ********✟****

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Few Hours Later or So_ \---

Your dryly chapped, roseate lips were far from ebullient to curl after your strawberry-coloured tongue conjugates vowels and syllables in one meaningful word at least. Solely jaded, lifeless groans, barely benumbed escaping your tongue after the bar fight, the confront with Cole and the orderlies dressing you up from your grunge outfit with dark ripped, bloody-stained jeans, midnight black chiffon long-sleeved shirt and dark leather jacket into a rigidly shapeless, tiresome patient gown with its rigid hem flaring across your knees. You were mildly tipsy after consuming a sufficient quantity of beer to quench even headstrongly inebriating you.

The beauty coma just stopped in a halt once your brittle eyelids fluttered like wings opened at the partly austere, dull ward with a couple of yards space. The incessant choir of blinking your {E/C} jewels, emitting a helplessly lifeless groan gutturally, subsequently you came to the conclusion that you weren’t all alone in the ward at all. The company of the senior nun, visually readable in her appearance between her fifties and early sixties with a fistful of gilded, silky locks of her coiffed mane framed her round full profile was far from a warm welcome for you. Literally embarrassingly shamefacing and challenging for you. An eerie flat line blurred every pattern of glee or sorrow, spread across her rosy-coloured, attractively cherub lips. Her smoky quartz jewels were fixated on your {S/C}, crestfallen complexion which no longer were battered with merry and shining smiles, soft textures of mirth glinting your {E/C} embers and blazing them more vibrant than the sunlight. Within persistent series of blinks, your vision cleansed abruptly and you had a better access to study your surroundings in the seconds of lethal silence where you weren’t the protagonist to initiate the conversation, nor the stern sister of the church, seating on the chair by your right side.

Glancing forward, onward and backward, or rather spinning your {E/C} embers to survey each undiscovered corner of the cell, blazed with childlike inquisitiveness and bewilderment in the same time, you licked bashfully girlish your lips after twirling and spiraling your strawberry-coloured tongue in the exact axis. The cell where you’re imprisoned was poorly furnished with nothing else than a tattered, smeared in filth bed sheets and blanket with feculent whiteness which wasn’t as sheer as a brilliantly glimmering diamond. Briefly, you can tell you were imprisoned in a mental institution for criminally insane and it was one of the most infamous mental institutions in the small city of Massachusetts, Briarcliff.

The last thing you recalled from your tempest of thoughts’ memories was the bar fight and how Cole taught a lesson to you and your only loyal, true friends in one of the cheapest bars of Boston. Explicitly damaging your cells with the sorely fresh, morbid memories of your former drug boss, who found you with Dana, Barb and Frederic nowhere else and got his own revenge with almost kicking your buckets in front of the customers and bartender.

“You had an accident, Miss!” The Boston lilt highlighted the head nun of Briarcliff, folding her legs, contoured with the rigidly woolly shapeless hem of her dark, conservative habit, whereas her fingers knitted in the relaxedly fashioned in balled fists petite, palish hands. Scarcely there was any quantity of foreshadowing the real motive why your freedom was rather strictly confined even worse. Deprived from contemplating the true notion of light and joining the general population’s society with the complacent freedom, flapping its own golden, angelic wings, you squinted up at the sister of the church, holding her gaze steadily since your parents have taught you whenever somebody’s turn was to utter a single vowel and syllable in a symphony together at least, thereafter the best thing you could do was the eye contact’s stability, maintaining the adequate politeness in your manners even with your worst foe. The drums, brattling vigorously in your ribcage were parallel to the significantly murderous increased heart rate with the vortex of questions, swirling and twirling in your train of thoughts and the formal situation of facing much older adult, whose position was on much higher tier than yours.

“Sister, I know who’s responsible why I look like a total crap,” Stammer limping backward and forward in your throat, quirk creased across your {EB/C} eyebrows in choir, whereas your front ivory teeth nibbled on the raw spot of your lower lip. “But why I’m here? What I’ve done?” The smoothness in your Maryland lilt punctured your grave curiosity to seek the answers you’re looking for.

“You’re involved in a bar fight with yar friends and you almost killed a man, who claims to be a scientist.” What it exasperated you more than anything was what your former boss exaggerating to Jude over the false charge which has nothing to do with the reality. Your former boss was your biggest foe at the moment emphatically even more turning the others against you who are nothing else than strangers with belligerence towards you. Namely judging you by its book cover without hearing your story and the essential reason what exasperated the drug cook. Incredulity contoured your youthful facial features, raising an arch of your eyebrow at Jude’s coldhearted, emotionless monologue though it didn’t matter the timbre as much as the stark truth.

In the meanwhile, heinous ire was pulsating in your petite-frame, although you were strapped on the patient bed, depriving the freedom of your ankles, wrists, biceps and neck’s muscles to be reproductive. All you could think of as a scenario that was a conspiracy to be deprived from the freedom which you pearly cherished even more than escaping the vicious claws of the authorities back in Silver Spring, Maryland. Adrenaline was pumping into your veins recurringly. Restlessness stiffened your confined muscles.

“That’s impossible, Sister! It’s true I was involved in a bar fight,” What it baffled you even more was the inhumane pain, pricking your overall figure and sensing the sequence of the mauve tints, black eye, dried blood patchy uneven spots where the bleeding was refreshingly unfold. A heavy sigh flushed your chest, stilling your flickered up gaze at the older woman. “But I haven’t almost killed that man who claims to be a scientist. It’s lies on top of lies what he claims.” Meanwhile, the older woman’s wrinkles weight stretched with the crinkles, cusping her dark, thin eyebrows whilst shaking her head in solemn disagreement, modicum of agreement wasn’t readable on her facial attributes. “He’s a drug cook and a predator, who has illegally pornographic photos of underaged girls and women without their consent.”

“Even when I’d like to hear yar story, Miss {Y/N}, I’m afraid I can’t believe any quantity of what are ya currently telling me!” The Bostonian’s fists were fashioned in balled, grasping the rigidly wool texture, grazing itchily beneath her delicate spider fingers until an antagonistically ferocious, impulsive growl coursed through your throat, coarsening your attributes momentarily.

“Jesus, Sister!” The inward, smoothly hoarse hiss droned your throat, throughout verbal vibrations dancing in your throat muscles. “Get me a Bible to swear on, if that’s what it takes.”

“I don’t like by the way yar speaking to me, young Miss! Don’t make me perform an electroshock therapy on you on the morning after,” All of a sudden, what it was oblivious for the Bostonian was the presence of one more soul, stepping inside the ward after meekly, resiliently silent shut the rusty, old door behind him and approaching his right hand in striding with tiptoeing. You glanced at the tall, masculine figure which was donned in the dark, wool attires of the clergy. It didn’t look familiar to you at all, in fact, you knew so far that Sister Jude and the Monsignor were running together the madhouse with an iron fist and the barbaric tortures behind the dull, lifelessly grayish walls featuring the morbidity and the genuine notion of nightmare as falsely accused and pseudo-immoral. In spite of Boston was far from foreign for you after dwelling in the small city of Massachusetts a year ago, your fair knowledge about Briarcliff wasn’t bittersweetly disappointing. “Monsignor!” At the moment, the older lady turned to the visibly younger man, whose pristinely meaty, masculinely strong fingers of one of his hands was clawing her shoulder consolingly, nudging her to attract her attention and avert her gawk from you promptly. Her elderly appealing facial attributes promptly softened after facing her own boss, who seemed quite young, compared to her as if their age gap could be approximately a decade or a decade and a half at least. Vaguely sheening, pearly smile adorned her face and blurring any quantity of fury and sorrow, indicating her current expression.

Further, what your nimble instincts could echo as inner voices to you were that the priest and Sister Jude deemed as more than just business partners and you could closely observe how their mannerism in the body language and facial expressions are playing out in front of you. The amalgamation of friendship and unrequited love glimmered thousand patterns of perplexion in your gawk, opening your mouth in a soft O after your sensitive, flexible nostrils flared quietly and inhaling the pungent, appalling reek of urine, poor hygiene, bleach, human waste and heavy medicaments wafted across your nose momentarily even when you came to your senses.

The intensifying silence that was arching between the both pious members of the clergy nonplus you as if you didn’t have another alternative except to keep yourself quiet before Timothy was the second witness of getting you in trouble for blasphemy or immorally wrong behavior. It overflowed like crystal-blue cataract in the small room for a half a minute just before the intension didn’t level out to the highest, most divine tiers. Last but not least, the silence and the discord which seemed to foreshadow during the hush between Jude and Timothy clearly allowed you to survey warily the photogenic man of the cloth unless his chocolate brown irises didn’t meet yours.

First and foremost, his height was approximately 6’0 by judging how quite tall he was compared to the blonde. His skin tone was alabaster pale and giving you a first prompt that he wasn’t an American at all. His charming facial features didn’t carry any weight of wrinkles, sketching his lower eyelids and cheeks with exception the light-heavy wrinkles due to the inexorable aging process and the dark circles under his chocolate brown irises, implying to the insomnia he’s been through, the immense stress due to his persistent hard work as a clergyman. Benevolence and nonchalance textured smoothly his parchment, youthful complexion. His short chestnut hair was neatly trimmed and smartened to cap his head. By judging his vision, you’d determine his true age was between his thirties and early forties unless his true age was acknowledged somehow.

“Jude, Jude,” The honeyed, English lilt, accentuating the ambitious Monsignor’s, whereas his delicate fingers manipulated to work on kneading her shoulder consolingly yet, ducked his head to maintain the eye contact with his right hand. “Don’t!”

“What I mustn’t do, according to ya? The blasphemy should be punished brutally with an electroshock therapy or at least a couple of canes.” In the meanwhile, pout twisted upon her rosy-coloured, cherub lips strangely enticingly for your {E/C} eyes, still wondering whether if Timothy was still sincere to persuade the pious woman of the cloth’s radical intentions of castigating you with an electroshock therapy, in order to boil your brains and subsequently transmuting you in a mindless zombie and lurching around. “It’s intolerable, Monsignor! Tell me!”

“Tell me what is that barbarian side of yours! I thought you will be strongly against Dr. Arden’s experiments and so forth.”

“Due to the fact I’m strongly against whatever he does to the patients, that doesn’t mean I can’t treat the patients in similar way unless their disobedience reaches the highest levels of arrogance.” In the interim, your blank, glassy gawk was darted to the both members of the church which had strong discords with one another, whereas your berry-coloured tongue clicked silently, timidly. On one hand, you weren’t fan of dramas and heated debates. On other hand, it intoxicated your other side how sadistically relishing was when somebody was standing for you and putting your foe or dislike on the right track, in spite of your tribulations were different compared to the confront with the head nun of the madhouse and you were all alone to cope with any tribulation that blocked your path to success and continuation.

“Jude, I’m afraid the new patient’s story deserves to be listened and therefore to schedule her therapy in less aggravating way!” Suddenly a flabbergasted gasp slipped from your tongue, reluctant to die on your tongue in the oblivion and quirking an eyebrow quizzically at Timothy. Judging his British lilt, emphasizing his stern, nevertheless, calm caution with authoritative timbre, you were completely sure he’s a European and most of all, British emigrant. You were beyond mesmerized by his well-educated eloquence, smoothly constructing the words in a rational exclaimation. Your {E/C} pools were mistily transfixed mostly on the clergyman, almost forgetting about the clash with the former promiscuous nightclub singer. Licking greedily your chapped lips idly, you sensed the protection from nobody else than a representative of the opposite sex you covet for years was far from a reverie. Of course, Frederic protected you during the old high school days even opted to protect you, Barb and Dana from your former drug boss and cook Cole! There was a ginormous difference between the man of the cloth and Frederic’s notion of protective nature nonetheless.

“But it’s slightly late for tonight to listen to her story, Timothy! Don’t ya think?” In the interval, the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer lifted her petite, creamy hand from her crotch with the flattened clammy area of her palm to muffle the mere, jaded yawn, fanning with her mint-stained breath the delicate skin of her palm, lingering her honey brown orbs on the cocoa brown. “Tomorrow in the morning! After everybody are awake to be sober enough to have a fine talk face-to-face in my office.” Throughout her monologue, Judy crossed her arms to indicate her seriousness even when her disagreements with the love of her life were clearly obvious.

“For you,” With a heavy sigh, flushing his nose, Timothy rubbed encouragingly kind her shoulder and squeezing it faintly, in order to convince her to flee the antagonizing territory and have a rational discussion with you. “Yes! Otherwise in my case, no! You shall better go rest and collect through the night extra energy and freshness for the next morning, Jude!” Although the Bostonian didn’t have any intentions of fleeing the cell unless she was done with the dirty work, she docilely, humbly lifted up her rear from the chair and turned to the ambitious man of the cloth, managing to maintain an appropriate distance with him, due to the fact, they were already married to God for countlessly unknown years and their bodies and each cell, each muscle, each bone truly belonged to God and the holiness. An irritated pout parted upon the older lady’s rosy-coloured, plumpish lips, slightly ducking her head. “Tomorrow it will be day to have an adequate talk with Miss {Y/N}, trust me!”

Shivers and paroxysm violently prickled with electrifying goosebumps your arms and legs’ epidermis, exposed to the common, hypodermically chilly climate that was clouding the asylum’s atmosphere. The elating eloquence tingling melodious tunes into your ears whenever the British compatriot’s words were trickling like after rain droplets from his mouth was enticing you after the bar fight, the capricious customers’ complaints and the nun’s bitter rebuke, brightly contrasting to the shrilling symphony of inner voices, amalgamating in your whirlpool of thoughts dynamically.

“As ya say, Monsignor! Good night and I’m trusting ya with my life to be careful! I don’t want her to attack or harm ya.” Wickedly infernal chuckle clicked the roof of your mouth, solely distinctive for you unlike the both older adults after earning their glimpses for a split second. “Take care, Timothy!” After drawing the love of her life in a tight, kindhearted hug as her alabaster arms were snaked around his amusingly muscular, broad shoulders.

“So as you, my rare bird! I promise everything will be fine. All you need is to be calm.” Seconds before the holy woman to retire to the abysmal, dimly illuminated hallway, they broke off the hug and taking their time to admire one another’s faces. Timothy’s optimism and realism feuded Jude’s pessimism, despite the British compatriot didn’t seem to have any malicious intentions at all. “{Y/N}, you okay?”

“I guess.” Rusty, hoarse groan dripped from your mouth after your neck muscles constricted due to the strap’s tightness, leashing you after a salty lump bubbled up in your throat and managing to gulp it. This time, you had the ultimate opportunity to challenge yourself with gazing at the British aristocrat’s parchment complexion.

“You look like a beaten dog. Oh God!” What it disgustingly abhorred the director of the facility was the consequences of the bar fight, mapping your petite-frame, muffling the spontaneous gasp with his colossal, veiny hand. “Who’s responsible for all this?”

“I doubt it you want to believe me, Father!” After clearing your throat with a dry, half-hearted cough, you didn’t avert your {E/C} jewels from his smoky quartz embers, blazing childlike, diplomatic curiosity. A despondent frown flattened downward your dry, sorely cracked lips. “Even if you want to believe me, I’m sure I’ll end in the solitary sooner than later.” The sheer sarcasm, dancing in your emphasis didn’t break Timothy’s facial expression as well, whilst his baby pinkish, visually soft as satin lips seized in a purse.

“Sister Jude is slightly stricter when it comes up to new patients even to the least obedient ones! I’m afraid you won’t end in the solitary unless your behavior is far from acceptable.”

“I don’t care how strict she appears to be, because I can see that from miles.” Deep breath coursing from the top of your brittle lungs, you bit your lower lip and pointlessly your ivory teeth was scrapping the sensitive skin of your roseate lip. “But let’s start with the story since you insist to listen to me! I was in one of the bars tonight, hanging out with my friends Barb Summer, Dana Schwartz and Frederic Blake and drinking beer until my former boss as I and my pals used to be drug dealers and spreading drugs in Silver Spring, Maryland,” The frequent blinking choir of your eyelids almost ceased the fresh moistness of tears to buddle your lower eyelids and roll on your cheeks. You weren’t a keen fan of making scenes with blubbering uncontrollably in public even in front of strangers unless you isolated yourself or somebody trusted was by your side to cry on his shoulder. “His name was Cole. He used to boss me and my pals to spread his cooked product and earn an immense wealth especially when I lived with my grandparents after my parents passed away from cancer. One day when I was still seventeen-year-old and Frederic pried in his personal belongings, what he found was more than disturbing. Pornographic photographs of underaged girls and women without their consent were taken and we just quitted this business. The police were constantly looking for us even me and I know what a disgrace I was for my family with that business, but I couldn’t help and participating so that to make a big amount of money for our survival, instead relying on my grandparents’ small pension which could hardly feed three of us.” The devotional clergyman was all ears, attentively listening your monologue, composed soundtrack of stammers and emotions, measured in the monologue’s length. “That prick taught us a lesson for betraying him with the business and I don’t want even to look in the mirror what a freak I alook like.”

“You don’t deserve this even if you quit this business for your own good, {Y/N}!” Blush tinged your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks after eavesdropping the silver-tongued emphasis of your name, vaguely beaming at him which was certainly impossible, factly, nobody is prone to believe you, nor to be responsible for treating you differently unlike the other staff members and lunatics. “I believe you!” Suddenly your muscles and bones sedatingly paralyzed under the spell of his spellbinding firmness in his utterance, managing his mammoth, amusingly warm hand to paw your petite, weathered hand and providing comfort and warmness which you yearned for a long time. Incredulity brushed with somber colours your attributes. How does it come on earth only one person especially the Monsignor believing you from whom you expected to be even worse than Sister Jude? Especially in an antagonizing ambience, where there was no mercy and no chances of fleeing this unholy place. You were far from talkative and mirthful to peel a word. You were speechless.

“You believe me? Is that some kind of a joke?”

“Not at all, {Y/N}! Amusing or not, I’m the only one who truly believes you and doubts what the others say about you.” His pristinely warm, comforting fingers managed to knead your weathered, rigid knuckles, providing consolation and warmness. Your heart raced at his enticing touch which you have never pictured as a scenario, in fact, he’s a holy man and his entire identity genuinely belonged to God even when his distance from the holy world and realm were somewhat successful attempts to overlook God’s judgmental, fiercely piercing glares, casted on both of you. “I’ll try my best to find a way to arrange your release even when the Cardinal and Sister Jude would tear me off and the law would reckon my days.” Little did you know how sincere Timothy was beyond his promise, although the modicum of belief you want to pour in your naïve side of your character. ”I’ll make sure the electroshock therapies and everything else that means harm to you will be banished from your stay there. After all, you don’t seem quite malicious and being capable of anything immoral!” Benevolently soft, reassuring smile bloomed on his pale-pinkish lips, softening his handsome facial features immediately as you melted in his friendliness and the glowing chocolate brown orbs, wearing thousand patterns of serenity. “Chin up, {Y/N}! Relax and we will see on the next morning! Stay strong and don’t pressure yourself!” At the moment, the coldness swaddled your elvish hand after his fingers no longer lingered on your weathered flesh and heading to the rusty door, although his heart ached to spend series of hours with you in the starless night and slowly but surely mustering up in your company. He didn’t seem viciously self-centered and sadistic priest at all, despite your lacking enthusiasm in the religion and attending church. “Good night, {Y/N}!”

“Good night, Monsignor!” Within a several seconds, the cell was completely desolated and the rusty door swung shut in a slam, thereafter locked up in a single click and the lights were turned off, obscuring the light to bath the pitch-black darkness that blanketed you. The smile still lingered on your face after fluttering shut your eyelids to collect extra sleep. 


	3. Green-Eyed Monster

** **✞** ** _What doesn't kill me_

_ might make me_

_ kill you _ ** **✞** **

** **

\--- ******* ****\---

\--- _The Next Morning_ \---

\--- _25th of October, 1964_ \---

The morning after approached smoothly sluggish. Blurrier than the vividly graphically explicit memories of the dynamic roller coaster you’ve been through from the bar fight up to your fake imprisonment behind the lifelessly dull, hoary walls of the one of the most notorious mental institutions in Boston caged you as a bird, deprived from the pearly celestial freedom. Sweeter than the most insatiably licentious liquor, lacing with searing spiderwebs your tongue, flimsy throat, corners of your dehydrated mouth and organs. As preciously opulent as a mortal’s irreparably payable life.

After having a poor-quality breakfast alongside pretending to swallow the severe tranquilizing medicaments which the orderlies and nuns were obligated to give you, thereafter you were seating on the tattered, threadbare couch in the common room. The eerily French song was playing with the repetitive, unoriginal instrumental, accentuating the vocalist’s chanting lyrics and rendering the musical atmosphere even eerier. The ocean of lunatics, encircling you in a desolated circle were minding their own business whether ruthlessly merciless banging their heads in the brick walls, babbling to one another or themselves mostly or spiraling around, barely handling the reins off tightened to control themselves from budging and moving a single muscle.

Desolation could be rather the most common or lucid word to branded the desolation and the reason why you didn’t have any interactions with the other lunatics. The majority of them in the corner of your eye seemed far from sane and rational, besides to administer them with anything or manage to maintain a proper conversation for awhile at least. Nobody knew you, so as you didn’t know any single soul lurking in each corner of the mental institution except Sister Jude and the Monsignor. The only essential goal for you was Timothy to arrange your release somehow even when he’s risking his own career, vows and most of all, the Cardinal and his right hand’s word.

On one hand, dab of warmness swaddled cozily your heart after sharing what actually happened the last night in the bar and how Cole confronted even you and your friends got beaten severely by his fists and kicks with nobody else than the sole person who seemed the most normal and sympathetic behind the lifeless walls of the facility. His reaction was far from predictable. You haven’t envisaged somebody to stand for you even to care harkening your story without daring to interrupt you for a single second unless your monologue’s epilogue approached. He knew so far that you didn’t truly belong there, factly, you didn’t show any signs of immorality and mental illness. On other hand, what it puzzled you was opening in front of a stranger and it’s nobody else than a man of the cloth who had different tasks, refilling his hectic daily schedule rather than falsely committed patient against your will with its woe, befalling you. You didn’t know anything about Timothy, nor he does. Neither anything about his backstory, his earlier life or anything authentically remarkable, situated in his vortex of memories, whirling and twirling stormily, nor he did know about your backstory, early life except that you used to be a drug dealer and spreading the cooked product by your former boss in Silver Spring, Maryland.

During your dynamic life’s journey, you didn’t trust easily strangers and most of all opening in front of them even about the pettiest detail, building your character as a fragment whether from the past or present. The trust issues have always been a painful topic for you even when you once used to be in a relationship back a few years ago, however, the culmination was inevitably sore. You behold how heavenly ecstatic were the young women and men circa your age, planning their own future with their own fiancés or boyfriends or girlfriends to have children, to have honeymoons wherever they covet for a week, whereas you struggled to survive and you could scarcely trust anybody from the opposite sex especially much older, because of your former boss and the rich experience through the years. You’re still young and indecisive whatever you eventually wanted.

Why did you even grant modicum of your trust and opening about yourself in front of the priest? That was a crucial question, submerging your whirlpool of thoughts lately especially after having a sober, perfectly smooth conversation with him. You were an atheist for the rest of your days and the modicum of belief in the religion and God weren’t your top priorities or at least being part of your daily life. You always deemed the priests and nuns as hypocrites, bloodthirstily yearning for power to rise in the highest tiers of the diocese. Nevertheless, the situation where you were situated with Timothy and Jude was completely different.

Last but not least, the surrealistically humongous difference between Jude and Timothy spoke volumes to you. Depending on their manners and their behavior towards you even their aura determined whom you trusted more. You didn’t deem the woman of the cloth as somebody special whom you could grant your trust instantly, howsoever, something exceeding admonished you there’s something grim behind her enigmatic, austere personality which froze the boiling blood in her veins and the heart of steel, enveloping and cradling it. What it made you wonder was what she used to be in her former life and what antagonized her to give up the free lifestyle of guilty pleasures to take solemnly her vows by joining the church and opting to cleanse her guilty conscience by serving devotingly to the church and aiding the wretched souls to find the path to God and the light even behind the unholy, grandiose façade for criminally insane. The same question also aroused your ginormous interest to discover the devotional man of the cloth’s intentions and priorities and the crucial motive why he’s a member of the clergy, persistently serving the hallowed duties instead of being a family man or at least man with free lifestyle, boozing insane quantities of liquor, be involved in immoral acts according to the members of the clergy. The British compatriot was doubtlessly attractive and far from realistic to be a holy man, besides judging his fragile. There was nothing wrong with the people’s decisions they make in their own lives and from time to time, depending the decisions’ sequence subsequently regretting them for sleeping on the major fragments of their lives whenever they had to have fun and cherish each elapsing moment of their youth before the heavy wrinkles adorn their faces, their skins losing its own healthy elasticity, the sensitivity to be under the weather drastically increase its criminal chances.

“_Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__! __Routier pauvre et chantant__! __En tous chemins, en tous lieux,__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__!_”

“Hey!” All of a sudden, a young man visibly in the beginning of his twenties with frowzy chestnut neck length haircut, framing his oval, full profile with his cocoa brown embers and fair skin tone seated alongside you. “Are you new there?” When the stranger young man interacted to you not only non-verbally, moreover verbally it caught you off guard, dwelling out of your compact, imaginative world’s vortex of thoughts promptly and dwelling back to the crudely cold, inescapable reality’s realm. {E/C} embers landed on his, maintaining an appropriate, friendly eye contact.

“Yeah since the last night!” Quirking your {EY/C} eyebrow quizzically, your round rosy-coloured lips reproduced the half-heartedness in your utterance. “Who are you?” Your {E/C} jewels blazed sheer, childlike inquisitiveness to get to know the young man, knowing your borderlines and what was consuming you nonetheless.

“I’m Kit Walker. What about you too?”

“My name is {Y/N} {L/N}! It’s nice to meet you.” Even when you hardly know Kit, nevertheless, you still questioned his stay in the madhouse and what the genuine motive for his imprisonment was and what he’s done. Licking meekly, idly your chapped roseate lips after twirling distractingly your berry-coloured tongue, Kit offered his mammoth, amusingly stiff and veiny hand for a handshake as your petite, weathered hand fit ideally in the brief handshake, barely averting your gaze from his strangely consoling, unblemished. Vaguely genuine, amicable smile perched on your lips and beaming your facial attributes.

“Why you’re here? What have you done?” The calmness in his Boston lilt didn’t resuscitate your trust to share promptly the backstory or rather the prologue of your false institutionalization unless you hark the young man’s story.

“Before to question me or anything, I’d like to hear your story! I’m still questioning your stay there.” The sternness and coldheartedness exquisitely polished your authoritative caution, raising an arch of your eyebrow and flickering up your gaze at him with sheer rebuke before granting modicum of your trust to a stranger man whom you met and conversated just a handful of minutes ago. “I don’t give a damn whatever you used to be unless you spill the tea! I’m not judgmental, you know!”

“They think I’m Bloody face for not only beating to death and killing my own wife Alma, but also being responsible for the deaths of several women and skinning their corpses.” Gruffily clearing your own throat, in order to reciprocating the salty lump, bubbling up into your feminine Adam’s apple and petering out the scruffy hoarseness and rustiness in your voice, you listened attentively the young man’s monologue. “I haven’t killed any single soul. I’d never do such a thing!”

“I believe you!” By judging the young man’s appearance and body language’s polished mannerism, it scarcely alluded he bears a semblance of a murderer or an offender, involved in outlaw deeds, although you considered everybody had their own story and you could determine somehow how true or false is, parallel to the reality. “You don’t even look like a killer.” What it left breathtakingly speechless Kit was how non-judgmental you emerged at first sight to be and most of all, not reprimanding every petty detail behind your small talk which transmuted in a deep, philosophically logical conversation.

\--- ******* ****\---

\--- A Quarter an Hour Later or So ---

Whilst you’re in the middle of your conversation with Kit who was readily unblemished soul, all of a sudden the man of the cloth entered in the common room by announcing you to come in the head nun of Briarcliff’s office with escort promptly.

As soon as up to the head nun of Briarcliff’s office journey escalated up to the middle, icy hush was arching between both of you and Timothy which was peculiar for you, in fact, he treated you kindheartedly the night before after confronting Jude, besides spending each elapsing second of your limited time in providing comfort by listening to the prologue of your fake imprisonment in the asylum. The hush was far from satisfying. You still questioned the British compatriot’s lethal silence and the eerie flat line, obfuscating whether the smoothly sheening textures of bliss spread across his baby-pinkish lips or the rigid texture of sorrow and ire. The heart rates rapidly rabid increased, murderously affecting the drums battering in your ribcage. You were yet sheepishly bashful to pose the question why he appeared to be formally serious now unlike the last night. From the night before you could deem him somehow as vague likeness for confronting nobody else than the most authoritative holy woman of the cloth you’ve ever encountered in your frail life up to the utter stranger with sheer neutral, hoary aura oozing of him. Little did you know whether if Timothy could be trusted or on the contrary he’s a second choice to be part of your trust. The divine reverent aura, oozing of him was agitating you whether to question his silence or otherwise the British compatriot would spill the tea.

“Monsignor, is anything wrong?” Despite your formal politeness which your family taught you earlier through your evolution, heavy sigh flushed Timothy’s flexible nostrils after your disquietude punctured your seriousness in the posed question, begging for his instant vouch, glancing at him to make sure whether if he pursued for your {E/C} pools or on the contrary, his cocoa brown pools were transfixed in the direction you’re currently walking.

The hush was more intensifying than a senseless body, swaddled lukewarmly in a sheerly oyster-white blanket of the death and weakness. The arcane quietness was yet bemusing you. Anyway whenever you witnessed the British aristocrat’s presence in the common room to inform you about your recent urgent visit to the holy woman’s office, the vivid memories of his unavoidably unspeakable jealousy, glinting in his smoky quartz jewels was quite fiercely sinister for you even when he hardly peeled off a word about his jealousy when you interacted with other representatives of the opposite sex. What he actually wanted from you? Did Timothy covet to protect you or anything from Kit, who’s falsely accused as Bloody face? Even if he didn’t have benevolent intentions, at least what was his problem to put his nose in your business?

The answer was unavoidably apparent. In spite of Sister Jude was the one to be utterly responsible for the patients and the barbaric punishments from the canes up to the solitary confinement, it didn’t obscure Timothy’s ability as her boss and most of all, his interference to be a particular sequence of a patient’s destiny.

Conundrum was rather the appropriate moniker for the aspiring Monsignor’s behavior towards you. You didn’t even know what whirled and twirled in his blizzard of thoughts. You’d rather wonder one second your undeserved punishment was far from escapable, whilst in the same time wondering if he’s going to be true to his word and be chargeable for your release which may affect his career, vows and his professional even platonic relationship with the Bostonian.

“Monsignor, I’ve a question!” You tried your best to attract his attention which was one of the toughest, crucial tasks at the moment even when your meek, monotonous footsteps drummed in a click against the cemented, grayish flooring. At the moment, you managed to hold your stare, pursuing for his smoky quartz embers which eventually met yours after increasing your voice’s tone to diminish the chances of muteness.

“What would you like to ask me, {Y/N}?” Eventually it worked how deliberately was the highlight in your posed question, subsequently earning a vouch of inquiry, slipping from the clergyman’s tongue, whereas you cleared your throat with a dry, idle cough. You needed to admit you loved it whenever his tongue crafted the honeyed syllables and vowels that built by rhyme your name. In the meanwhile, his mammoth, stiff and veiny hands were plugged uneasily in his charcoal black wool slacks’ pockets, indicating his composed posture which couldn’t be flinched at all even due to an odd background noise.

“Is anything wrong actually? What I’ve done so that to treat me coldly unlike the last night?”

“You weren’t interacting to somebody you would easily trust or would like to talk for a small talk at all, Miss {Y/N}! He’s a murderer of women, according to his patient file.” After passing ocean of orderlies and security guards who were struggling to drag lunatics’ writhing bodies in their grips, your nostrils flared at the lavish reek of urine, poor hygiene, human waste, heavy medicaments and bleach, amalgamating in a fogging cloud.

“What’s the problem for talking to somebody who’s also a patient in Briarcliff, Father? Even if he’s a murderer or sociopath, he doesn’t seem trouble at all after listening to his story.” Suddenly severely rough texture highlighted the clergyman’s charming facial attributes, grimacing his face in a twisted frown, embellishing his pale-pinkish, cherub lips. Furthermore, the pure jealousy was skeptically tingling a requiem in your ears. “I don’t clearly understand it. Sister Jude is supposed to be the one to take care of patients and she’d be totally okay with me even interacting to the biggest psychopath of Boston unless we endanger one another’s lives or the paged up rules.”

“Do not make it hard for me, {Y/N}!” All of a sudden, in the epilogue of your journey up to the Bostonian’s office, the older man pushed you violently against the brick, icily cold wall, his mammoth, veiny and amusingly warm hands clawed your dainty shoulders, while your breathing hitched and averting your gaze for a split second to glimpse at the both directions of the abysmally dimming hallway, gulping hard the bitter lump, budding up in your throat. Cherry blush tinged your chubby, well-carved cheeks and sweltering flush hypodermically sedating your neck. “Do you understand me?” Lightly baring balefully his teeth in berserk mode spotlighted his nonchalance, accentuating his enquiry, while you nibbled on the raw spot of your lower plumpish lip, bobbing your head in solemn agreement, scarcely acknowledging what you’ve done to him to taunt his darker side. “Good! It’s a mental institution and it’s not a kindergarten, {Y/N}!”

“So as it’s not a kindergarten, every patient has every right to communicate with whoever inmate they want. It’s just like school, work and everywhere else, Father!” In spite of the loosened claw, clung to your shoulders, the masculinely headstrong, bizarrely warm and comforting touch sent paradoxal shivers and paroxysm down your body of sweetness, pleasure and slight embarrassment. 

** **Author's Note: I'd like to apologize sometimes for the updates' delay, nevertheless, soon I got hooked on Supernatural and school is such a pain in the neck, besides the author's block not because of the lack of ideas except the laziness, itself. ** **

** **I think I'm starting in the beginning slightly earlier with some dramatic stuff such as Timothy's jealousy which reminded me of Wings of Light's first chapters when Timothy was peculiarly jealous of Jude for interacting with Cayden. Moreover, I'd like to apologize for the slightly sloppy chapter, but I tried my best to overcome with something original even to finish it in the end of the week instead of saving it as an update for the beginning of the imminent week. ** **


	4. Swordplay

** **✝ ** ** _I don't live in_

_ darkness, darkness_

_lives in me _ ** **✝** **

\--- ******* ****\---  
\--- _An Hour Later or So _\---

An hour after the double clashes with the aspiring Monsignor's venomous, dubious jealousy and opening yourself about the prologue of your false institutionalization in the madhouse to Sister Jude, you were sent back to the common room just shortly before being conveyed to the bakery for double shift by using your mere culinary skills in baking and kneading the dough.

After your brief journey up to the common room with a handful of minutes of striding within a several steps, your elvish, {S/C} hands fashioned in balled fists, subsequently sweeping with your physical strength the double door, leading to the sufficiently expansive room.

Your {E/C} embers blazed a tempest amalgamation of despondence, sheer duvet of hopes and emotionlessness, landing on the tattered, uglily obsolete couch with its sufficiently average scale, taking in the room and fitting exquisitely a couple of patients, depending on their body structure. An eerie flat line smeared across your pallid, chapped lips due to the lack of proper care and hygiene to fertilise your health condition which was critically depending also due to the madhouse's gruesome conditions which it may offer for every imprisoned patient. The same monotonous, sinister French song was tingling its own ballad in your ears, regardless how oddly spooky was a mental institution to be equipped with a vinyl recorder and the vinyl disk playing on a loop in a foreign language which lyrics spoke volumes with its achromatic tones.

When your impending destination was the couch, managing your rear to perch on the sufficiently comfortable area to relax and recline, all of a sudden one of patients which was rather a pinhead, donner in similar tiresomely obnoxious attires hugging your figure, she opened her mouth in a soft, vibrantly amicable grin, glimmering across her lips with pure innocence and amiability, wearing thousand patterns of mirth that vibrantly contrasted the ocean of low spirited facial expressions. Far from vulnerable to be broken with a soft, vague grin. 

“_Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__! __Routier pauvre et chantant__! __En tous chemins, en tous lieux,__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__  
Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__!_”

"Play with me!" Pepper's inviting insistence drew your attention promptly, startling you as your facial expression broke in a hesitant sheepishly girlish smile, curling upon your roseate lips. In the interval, the pinhead spiralled in the spin, stretching her pudgy, asymmetric arms in the thin air.

"Who are you?" Too reluctant to get your rear from the sofa, what it was obvious for you that a young woman of the cloth entered in the common room. You posed seriously your question, begging for an exceeding response in a jiffy, quirking a perky eyebrow nimbly.

First and foremost, the stranger patient looked bizarrely younger and deformed with much shorter height as if it’s anatomy belonged to a pre-teen with a chestnut, greasy high bun, framing her round, full profile with her purely unblemished sapphire blue jewels, igniting childlike innocence and warmness like a sanctuary which you might find hideout for the forthcoming apocalypse. Further, what you could instantly discern in the older woman’s appearance was a physical illness was the symptom for her deformed appearance. What it struck you as a first impression about Pepper was her doubtlessly bare goodwill and her enormous, golden heart, being caged inside her ribcage with the frequent drums, affecting her heart rate. Last but not least, Pepper’s rigidly shapeless stone blue patient gown flared across her knobby knees.

"I'm Pepper. What about yours?" The sheer optimism, spotlighting Pepper's vibrant, jubilant voice vaguely brightened your humor and resuscitating it from the low spirits. Further, calmness, interweaved with amiability snapped in your timbre.

"Urm, {Y/N}," Stutter limped forward and backward in your itchy, dehydrated throat, managing to not twist the smile in a frown even when the monotonous click of Mary Jane drummed against the dull cemented floor, speculating as higher chances to encounter the head nun of the facility.

"Pepper, leave her alone!" All of a sudden, your {E/C} embers flamed with stark irritation, brightening the palish nuances promptly, stinging widened in nonplus and speechlessness. Adrenaline pumping into your lava veins due to the young nun's reprimand at the pinhead inmate which was far from amiable and a warm welcome even though nobody seemed to be fond of you inside the lifelessly featureless, hoary walls of the mental institution except Kit, Pepper and somewhat the ambitious Monsignor.

“Sister, Pepper didn’t mean any harm!” Suddenly the juvenile blonde cleared her throat with a soft, meek cough, whilst her petite, palish hand muffled the cough politely, flickering your {E/C} embers at her lapis lazuli, linking them with electrifying goosebumps prickling your epidermis. “She just wanted to play.” Even when your rational, sufficiently explainable utterance attempted to persuade Sister Mary Eunice to flee your personal interaction with the pinhead, nevertheless, sarcastically demure stare was shoot at you, hinting something hazard for you and a sardonic smirk creased across her youthfully porcelain, marbled complexion.

Determining the juvenile pious clumsy woman of the cloth’s age, judging her appearance her genuine age was no more than in her late teens as if she seemed slightly younger than you. What it quizzically surmised you was how she’s devoted herself to the cloth at such fragile, early age especially when she has to finish high school or at least attend regularly college, have her own personal life with a boyfriend or perhaps a fiancé, plotting their wonderful future together with a few children at least. Furthermore, the majority of the sisters of the church which you have spotted whether occasionally or not exactly were usually at the age-range of middle-aged and seniors with exception of small scale of ladies, taking solemnly their vows at young age to escape poverty, misery, the free lifestyle, humiliation or rather seeking spiritual guidance and peace with themselves at last. A fistful of flossy aureate tresses framed her long, full profile with her outstandingly adorable, childlike facial attributes, indicating her real age. Her lapis lazuli irises were drizzled with pure, ingenuous innocence, lavishly glimmering with hope and benevolence. Last but not least, her gracefully slender body structure was donned in a rigidly dark, conservatively rigid habit and wimple, coiffing her lion mane of youthfully aureate, perky tresses.

“Miss {Y/N}, you don’t have any clue what she’s capable of, besides she drowned her own sister’s baby!” Meantime, the older lady retired from you and the sister of the church with a couple of inches, fleeing the battlefield momentarily after Sister Mary Eunice intervened with contempt. The vaguely beaming smile once blooming on your young-looking face was mopped off right away, blurring starkly vibrant mirth’s stars with starless despondence and emotionlessness, unhealthily contouring your facial features.

“She doesn’t even look like a murderer except she isn’t like the others and I doubt she’s capable of a homicide or something criminal.”

“No matter what do you want to believe, Miss {Y/N}, it doesn’t change the fact what Pepper has actually done something totally wrong and therefore being a patient in a mental institution for criminally insane!” Your front ivory, firm teeth manipulated to gnaw between them the raw, delicate skin of your lower plumpish lip, squinting up your {E/C} irises at the pinhead that initiated the brief conversation, transfixing it fierily whilst narrowing your perky eyebrows playfully grave, idly. “Since she’s under the supervision of staff members and taking her own medicine, that means there’s something wrong with her.”

“_À l'époque ou Jean-sans-Terre__! __D'Angleterre était le roi__! __Dominique, notre père,__Combattit les Albigeois.__Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__!_”

“Just because she’s a freak or anything, that doesn’t make her capable of a murder or something else, involving her in something tremendously,” The sharpness in your retaliation punctured your unembellished sincerity and seriousness, standing for Pepper’s beliefs and interests even when you barely knew her and essentially judging her physical appearance to have higher chances of being capable of unimaginably apocalyptic deeds, tainting her morality with bleak darkness. “Tremendously dangerous and endangering her morality, life even the others’ lives!” The heated debate between you and Mary Eunice bulked the further patients’ attentions in no time as twain of inquisitive, groggy orbs were fixated in the center of the general attention even when you weren’t very fond of drawing a pointless attention, in order to glimmer brighter than a full moon in the starless nocturnal sky. You flickered up a glare at the younger lady, stilling your front teeth to nip the delicate skin of your lower cherub lip.”Do you know what is more disgusting than all that, Sister?” Dark, woefully sarcastic giggle clicked the roof of your dehydrated mouth to test Mary Eunice’s patience even when cherry blush tinged generously her chubby, well-carved cheeks urgently, whereas she managed to shake her head in uncertainness, scarcely predicting the interpreted utterance, lurching backward and forward on your tongue tip and swimming through the stormy tempest of our thoughts. “To believe the filthiness of religious goody-two shoes robots, considering themselves so loyal to the church that they’re fighting for the general population’s justice with their bland lies and most of all, you blindly believing as an easily manipulative puppet of your mentor that somebody as harmless as Pepper should be isolated from everybody else.” In the meanwhile, the juvenile blonde shrugged off her shoulders at your sharp rejoin, snapping her out of Jude’s barriers that kept her safe in her presence unless she confronts the absolute reality she’s currently living. “I don’t care if I’m taken to the solitary confinement or to Sister Jude’s office for a goddamn good punishment to make an ass of me, but as much as I’ve done my own job with standing for somebody who’s being tremendously bullied, save your breath, Sister!”

“I swear I’ll seek an advice from Sister Jude to report about your coarse, unacceptable behavior, Miss {Y/N} {L/N}!” Last but not least, your lips zipped in a subtly, attractively thoughtful purse, indicating your graveness while being all ears during the juvenile holy woman’s caution, opting to regenerate strictness to highlight each word in an inescapable emphasis.”You make it so difficult not only for me, but also for the staff members and the others!” Even when Mary Eunice struggled to clash you with the proper words, formulated in her retaliation, she attempted to interpret everything which she’s been told by Sister Jude after facing a rebelliously unruly lunatic and most of all, using a professionally formal language to restrict your freedom. Even if it’s been a handful of minutes since you’ve conversated one another without any final results, you weren’t quite fond of Mary Eunice and viewing her as nothing else than the senior woman of the cloth’s minion, or rather goody-two shoes, diligently docile marionette, following her austere instructions which weren’t begging for a second chance and once the one-off and only chance to be accomplished was ruined, thereafter the punishments were unavoidably unforgiving and crude.

“_Routier pauvre et chantant__! __En tous chemins, en tous lieux,__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__! __Certain jour, un hérétique,__Par des ronces le conduit,_”

“Do whatever it costs you to make me repent for my immorality, Sister!” Unmitigated sarcasm corroded your neutrality and swaddling it with naked antagonism, rolling dramatically coldhearted, ironically your eyes, whilst the younger woman was on her way to flee the common room and fountain of pride submerged in the pit of your stomach and molting your heart for defending the defenseless, vulnerable pinhead against the nun’s bullying.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Several Hours Later or So_ \---

Within several hours, elapsing slower than molasses, dripping its own insatiably succulent dark juices from its jam downward to the silver spoon, the evening finally approached with great deal of anticipation in your case, in order to finish the double shift in the bakery.

Shortly after your confrontation with Sister Mary Eunice, subsequently you were conveyed back to Sister Jude’s office to earn ten canes, contacting your bare rear and leaving tracks of welts, bruises and mauve tints adorning your buttocks in the name of repentance, according to the head nun of the madhouse, you were sent urgently to the bakery for double shifts as a punishment instead of ending in the solitary conferment for your insurrectional demeanor in the past hours.

For now the both women of the cloth were your biggest, worst foes after Cole your former boss. What it hideously boggled you was the former sleazy nightclub singer owned a grandiose armoire with luxurious collection of canes to punish her patients, depending on the cane’s size and width. You’ve never heard of members of the clergy using such a method to penalize the victims of their own guilt and sins with something that barbarically painful, bizarrely kinky nonetheless. Sister Jude was the exceptional one, docketing in the list of the kinkiest devotional members of the church with such unorthodox methods of granting retribution to the wretched souls. Last but not least, what it make you wonder was how sadistically austere and authoritative became the former promiscuous nightclub singer and what made her to change her life’s direction, marrying herself and her frail skeleton to God as each cell, each bone and each meaty muscle truly belonged to the divine, almighty God. You weren’t an oracle or a professional fortune teller to hazard a guess, nevertheless, your acute intuition told you that she must have been struggling to overcome her demons from the past and no wonder what it transformed her. You didn’t consider her a dreadful person, howsoever, her authority and running a facility with an iron fist which the fewest members of the clergy would be capable of rendered her a coldhearted, aloof woman of the cloth, solely thinking of her efficient work and efforts, invested in her hard work to keep the lunatics under an incessant supervision and not being involved in another mess. The cryptic aura, oozing with more somber nuances of her frail skeleton didn’t disappoint you to still theorize her past and how the past has significantly impacted her true being nowadays. Perhaps a tough childhood? Being a former prostitute and serving the high-class prostitution to strive for her survival? Her ex-boyfriend or fiancé was gruesomely coarse to her and infected her with a vicious illness and she was still down with that sickness? Either one of these speculations was parallel to the genuine, celestial truth.

The sole inmates who were still in the bakery, working their double shifts due to their disobedience and rebellion were accompanying you even when you haven’t exchanged a single word with them. Kit was the only inmate whom you could grant your trust or at least socialize fair-to-middlingly.

The soundtrack of nimble and clumsy fingers, kneading the bread and pita-shaped dough, besides chatters was playing on a loop inside the bakery. You spent a couple of hours without a single second to breathe properly and rest, recollecting sufficient energy for a few minutes, in order to resume with kneading the bread and pita-shaped dough. Thick, stickily hideous layer of perspiration coated your facial skin and clamminess, amalgamating with oyster-white dough baptizing your elvish hands. Dehydration and starvation agonized your figure even when the starvation for hours aided you to have less appetite per the elapsing hours rather than your body craving for the necessary elements part of your diet less than an hour.

Once kneaded properly beehive of compact bread and pita-shaped dough on the counter, you stopped in a halt to rest for awhile, growling aggressively under your breath even when it was awkwardly distinctive for a handful of patients at least, hearing your roar after the restless hours of pressuring yourself in the bakery.

“Fucking goddamn!” Your strawberry-coloured, dryly dehydrated tongue opted to conjugate the syllables and vowels, successfully forming the cuss after dumping the swarm of dough on your workplace, flaring your flexible nostrils after inhaling and exhaling abundance of times the reek of urine, human waste, poor hygiene, human flesh, human sweat, heavy medicaments and the lavish fragrance of fresh dough, freshly baked bread in the oven as only contrasts.

“Hey you! The new one!” All of a sudden unfamiliar female voice with mischievous timbre attracted your attention promptly, turning you back to face with partly shaved head inmate, who seemed visibly in her thirties with gilded on one side mop of strands, framing her fair-tanned-clad, full profile and azure blue pools, blazing impurity and sensuality. You swallowed hard how naughtily playful her aura was, dripping from her identity. “I haven’t seen ya, the new girl!” The eccentric amiability, hilariousness in Shelley brought you a flourishing embarrassed, vaguely sympathetic smile, tattooed on your cherub lips.

“So as I do. Who are you?”

“I’m Shelley! What about you too, youngster?”

“It’s just {Y/N}.” Even when Shelley was eccentric, you quite liked and appreciated her company and she didn’t seem a horrendous human being at all except you opted to speculate that one of the crucial reasons why the blonde was imprisoned in the asylum was because of her nymphomaniac behavior and impure morals, thus leading to her institutionalization even when you seemed the nymphomaniacs as perfectly normal people instead of immoral, according to the contemporary standards which were peculiarly questionable, in your humble opinion. “Are you actually new either?”

“It’s true but not as new as you, {Y/N}!” Complacent, mischievous grin perched on the older woman’s face, brightening her facial attributes after tucking a couple of stray, riot gilded tresses behind her ear. What it struck you was how her head was partly shaved and it sent shivers down your spine with paradoxal sensation of ocean of questions to enquire right away the nymphomaniac inmate and how sinisterly treated she’s just because of her immorality. “And Sister Jude is pretty tough cookie without any mercy.” Heavy sigh left your nostrils after constricting your chest, moistening your chapped, roseate lips with a tongue. “And that’s why ya looked at my partly shaved head as if I look like a cuckoo, right?”

“I’m unsure how she’s capable even of shaving somebody head especially yours. She has completely lost her mind to punish us like that.” Your rear yet ached after the relentlessly inexorable canes contacting your bare buttocks and wounding them severely, bloodily. You couldn’t even seat on single furniture to take a brief break from the working process and you’ve never been canned.

“Why us, {Y/N}? What the hell are ya even talking about?”

“Because she canned me after confronting her goody-two shoes minion for warning me what kind of a being is Pepper!” In the interval, a salty, dry lump seethed in your throat, subsequently manipulating your throat muscles to gulp it with an ease after hesitantly exhaling sharply, whilst the older lady managed to arch a dark eyebrow at you gamely. “Pepper doesn’t even seem that harmful and malicious at all and they just make an ass of her for being a freak.”

“I’m afraid I’ve to agree with ya, because I really don’t like Mary Eunice for being that too innocent and easily manipulated by older hags.” Thereafter Shelley patted her own mid-thigh with the flat of her palm, whereas you folded your arms, listening attentively her exclaimation. “But Jesus! Those canes and struggling to seat on furniture to rest for awhile. That’s just gruesomely terrible shit!” Frustrated hiss scratched her throat, whilst you managed to bob your head in a solemn agreement. “It’s better for ya just to keep it cool and chin up while facing the demons of Sister Jude!” Suddenly you couldn’t suppress a healthy guffaw as Shelley joined you, your bellies hurting tearfully due to the punchline of the older lady’s joke.

All of a sudden, the bakery’s door swung opened, notoriously creaking which drew the patients’ attentions in no time as the ambitious Monsignor set a foot and his impending destination was approaching you.

“Monsignor!” Your tongue crafted the revered title of the clergyman as you maintained an appropriate proximity, in fact, the clergyman would be menaced to break a vow if his distance was oddly less than an inch with representatives of the opposite sex especially objects of sexual desires and pleasure and tempting.

“Excuse us, Shelley, but I and {Y/N} have to discuss something in private!” In the meanwhile, the blonde nodded, affirming in a strong agreement, whereas you docilely followed Timothy and exiting the bakery altogether.

When you’re both solely outside the bakehouse, consequently an abrupt exhale coursed through your lungs, nibbling your lower lip girlishly sheepish especially when you had to talk in private with nobody else than a revered man of the cloth.

“What did you exactly want to talk with me in private, Father?”

“I know everything what happened between you, Sister Mary Eunice and Sister Jude!” Vermillion ablaze blush powdered your chubby, well-sculptured cheeks, squinting up at the older man’s coffee brown jewels, finding strangely somehow comfort and warmness in them as a sanctuary. Grotesque frown decorated your rosy-coloured, cracked lips. “I particularly don’t blame you and I’m not quite fond of Sister Jude’s methods for punishment.”

“What the-“ Syllables and vowels verged to form a coalition of cuss, inking your tongue and almost slipping from your mouth like a feather, blew in the windy dance of the nocturnal wind of a forgotten summer. What it mesmerized you was how Timothy demonstrated signs of jealousy and being overprotective over you earlier today and now especially tonight defending you or at least you fathomed signs of his neutrality in certain conflicts.

“You’ve every right to communicate with every patient who seems friendly, in your humble opinion! Needless to say, that I’m frankly apologizing about my behavior earlier today.” Meanwhile, what it bafflingly struck you was how the British compatriot expresses his own apologies.

“You’re apologizing me for earlier today when you almost forbidden me to have any interactions with Kit as if I’m a little girl?” Fussing under your breath, solely distinctive for both of you, you fashioned in balled fists the fury pulsating in your body how changeable was the British compatriot’s opinion per certain amount of time. “And for showing signs of jealousy as if you’re deadly scared anything to not happen to me? I’ve had enough with such stuff through my life journey, Father!”

“You know that with the jealousy when the chickens have teeth.”

“I know what do you exactly feel for me, but the sad truth is that you’re just a priest and you aren’t capable of breaking your vows, just because of a former drug dealer.” At the moment, gruffily clearing your throat with a dry cough tingled a flickering screen’s tunes into his ears, raising an arch of his dark, thickly fuzzy eyebrow. “I’m just sure once you grant me the freedom for believing me as a completely innocent, thereafter the papacy is going to be your top priority for which I’m,” Shrugging your dainty shoulders whilst twisting the frown in an ironically weak grin, baring your ivory teeth. “I’m wishing you good luck and that’s all!”

“{Y/N},” Heavy sigh streamed from the top of his lungs, mild generous layer of sweat battering his forehead. “Even us, the priests have our own needs and feelings!”

“Needs?” In the interim, Timothy managed to bob his head in agreement, pursing his pale-pinkish, cherub lips. Somber, sardonic snicker fried on your tongue. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You could picture the scenario of abysmal heated debate between you and the holy man about the clergymen’s needs and feelings and how they’re even the same like the general population though you weren’t doted to continue with your headstrongness to prevail a farther, sinister retribution as a sequence of your stubbornness.

“As you insist! And your release is going to be arranged within a few days.”

** **Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for postponing with updating this book though I'm planning to update it like twice or 3 times a week, in order to not catch up with abundance of missing days and nothing paged up. ** **

** **I know how bland are the first chapters where the reader is housed in Briarcliff, but after fleeing Briarcliff, subsequently the journey is going to be exceedingly intriguing and dynamic. Full of surprises as well! ** **

** **A quick question to my readers! After this book with Timothy x Female Reader once I finish it, which fictional character/celebrity x Female Reader do you want me to write? (PS: I don't want to read the sort of comments that it's up to me and I've an utter control over anything I write, because that bugs me off, besides my questions being ignored.) Jude x Female reader, Elsa Mars x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Skyler White x Reader, Castiel x Reader or anything else with x reader? Feel free to express your own thoughts and drop me other fictional characters or celebrities which you want me to write about with a reader as mains! Don't be shy anyway! :))** **

** **In addition to even if you have given me a prompt to write for example Constance x Female Reader and I don't write it as an imminent project with x reader story, thereafter don't be worried at all! I'll keep it in mind after my most desired project I want to pour my imagination and hardwork! I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter anyway! :))** **


	5. Damned Feelings

** **✟ ** ** _Haven't_

_I_

_Fallen_

_far_

_Enough?_ ****✟****

\--- ******* ****\---

Once the man of the cloth broke the news about your forthcoming arranged release which will happen within a few days only, you didn't have anything prominent to utter except managing to bob your head meekly, humbly, pursing pensively, idly your cherub, chapped lips.

You had limited opportunities when you had to maintain a formal conversation with the clergyman, factly, his body and soul genuinely belonged to God and his wedlock to the almighty God wasn't exceptional at all and any cussing or physical contact would put you in a balefully ginormous danger, muddling your path to success and light. Notwithstanding the absolute reality, you thought by walking away with a vaguely beaming, affable smile, tattooed on your face would aid you to flee with a sluggish ease the territory where the retribution was foreshadowing.

"{Y/N}," All of a sudden, when your proximity with the British compatriot increased with a handful of inches as your slipper-clad feet drummed timidly bashful against the lifelessly grizzly cemented flooring, you felt some familiar weight clawing your dainty, alabaster shoulder momentarily. Paradoxal shivers and paroxysm seethed your body temperature and sedated your muscles and bones in no time, surrealistically pleasurable and oddly consoling touch grazing your shoulder blade. The honey, sugarcoating Timothy's English lilt tingled silver-tongued angelic hymns into your vulnerable ears and increasing rapidly rabid the heart beats, hammering in your ribcage. Bitter, dehydrated lump seethed in your feeble throat and struggling to swallow it and flexing your throat muscles in synchronisation. Another idle blink of your {E/C} embers blazed trouble and hesitancy, reluctant to neglect urgently Timothy's touch and the resonance, chanting your name. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm thinking to get back in the common room just before to be closed and being sent back to my ward." His enquiry begged for a rational explanation which you exchanged it adequately shortly after heavy sigh flushed jadedly your chest and the powder of cherry blush lingering hypodernically lingering beneath your facial skin. You sensed what kind of an exemplar of the trouble would br interpreted in your conversation with the ambitious Monsignor. Moreover, he was beyond realistically flabbergasted by your hideous stubbornness and admirable persistence. "I think you're having rather more business with your clerical duties rather than conversating a former drug dealer." The sheer sardonic timbre, darkening your Maryland lilt foreshadowed the sequence of the British aristocrat's stark frustration to clash your words with the exact formula of exposing his lighter, more genuine side of his identity, cloaked in the miserable cloth of chastity.

"That's not true, {Y/N}!" Little did you know how a man of the cloth is interested in you just a day after beholding him formally for first time and he has solemn promises to grant you the deserved, licentiously sweet freedom and perhaps not seeing one another ever again except in the church if you occasionally make one of the most insurmountable, unspeakable decisions ever in your life. Attending the church even once at least just for a prayer. "Look at me!" His headstrong insistence to link your {E/C} jewels with his and subsequently averting your gaze from the door, turning towards the older man to face him and manipulate your stare to meet his promptly.

"What do you even want from me?" Even when you sensed guilty pleasurable warmness pawing your feminine, brittle shoulder, demure mumble escaped your cracked on flimsy delicate skins of your plumpish lips, flaking across Timothy’s chocolate brown irises. Your posed question begged for a grave vouch and sufficiently explainable motive of his at least. “I told you what you needed to hear and vice versa.” Even when you’re elated to be released from the notorious facility in a handful of days, nevertheless, something urged to tear off your heart like a frail, extravagant cloth on thousand of glassy, flimsy pieces shattered in a swamp of arcane sorrow and misty heartbreak. Little did you know how much truly it meant the freedom to you especially after breaking free and joining the general population like a bird, who’s been just set free from its own old rusty cage. You didn’t even sense the holy man could be a friend of yours or at least conversate him informally, due to the absolute reality of his divinely venerated title, his age gap matching with the almost of your twenties and his background in general. And most of all, scarcely knowing him personally or a modicum of his background, childhood, adolescence and so forth. You deeply knew inside how much it may cost you with time and patience to discover his true colors not for days, howsoever, weeks and months. Last but not least, it wasn’t even certain why your frail heart sunk in misty heartache at the thought of once the arranged release plays its own cards right, thereafter you won’t see the fewest amiable patients and the ambitious Monsignor ever again unless either Kit, Shelley and perhaps Pepper were released somehow or on the contrary, you step whether occasionally or intentionally in the local church and the destiny plots you to encounter the British compatriot again.

“I’m interested.” What it embarrassingly mesmerized you was the answer you’re looking for was unpredictable, chanting and composing galore of lavish cryptic tunes into your sensitive ears in a looping soundtrack, numbing the background noises in the background as if they’re foreign even pretty pointless. Vaguely coy, affable smile parted upon the British compatriot’s baby-pinkish, plump lips without twisting it in an eerie flat line, nor an unwelcoming, austere frown.

“Interested in what, Monsignor?” Emphasis spotlighted his celestial title, interpreting his immense importance and major role in the diocese and the society, raising an arch of your {EY/C} eyebrow in bewilderment, contouring exquisitely the creases twisted across your forehead and cusping your eyebrow.

“To get to know you.” What it struck you was how the devotional clergyman yearned to get to know you even when he’s occupied with galore of tasks, refilling his daily hectic schedule with visiting places, collaborating with Sister Jude and Sister Mary Eunice and persistently fighting for his Cardinal position. The sole thing you’d think of doing at the moment just because of the incredulity, swaddling your frail skeleton and freezing your overflowing blood in your veins with its electrifying goosebumps, pricking your overall epidermis was to burst out in an uncontrollable, impulsive laughter, scratching your throat and searing the corners of your mouth with a healthy, genuine laughter and hurting your stomach. How is supposed a clergyman to be insatiably interested in getting to know nobody else than a criminally insane patient with a tough past and childhood even an unspeakable former occupation which would bring notoriety and cluster of scandals not only in the diocese, but also in the real world and the general population gossiping behind their backs? Even when you felt somewhat comfortable and cozy in Timothy’s company and under his wing and welfare, you’d never depict in your vortex of thoughts something as unrealistic as dating him even marrying him and creating your own family and spend the eternity in your own world. “Just call me Timothy, {Y/N}!”

“Timothy, that’s impossible! You’re just a priest and I’m a falsely committed to this institution patient.” A heavy sigh left you speechless at the top of your lungs for a split second, still tormenting your front ivory teeth to nip your lower chapped lip to stifle another pearly candid, maniacally shrilling snigger, pitching the hallway’s background. “That’s not a first date and you’ve your own priorities. I know very well what exactly you want.” A disappointed guttural grunt slipped from the older man’s strawberry-coloured, wet tongue once you retired to the common, opting to get out of his sight and feeling impotent to stop Timothy immediately even convince him he’s his own top priorities and crucial goals, determining whether to stay in the eparchy and pursue his own dreams or on the contrary resign from the church even have a fresh start with opening a new chapter in his own life.

“{Y/N}, come back!” Honed sharpness punctured in the velvety, English lilt of Timothy’s croak, insisting you to stay instead of fleeing lazily wand sensing that your conversation was already over and you just exchanged whatever you needed in these few minutes solely. You didn’t dare to turn your back, because you’re far from naïve and optimistic that the pious man of the cloth had such intentions, or rather most of all sacrificing with a baleful hazard to lose his own career and the recent tier he’s raised in the diocese by breaking a vow to communicate and interact with a former drug dealer. You were exceedingly grateful to him for being selflessly amiable, kindhearted and humanitarianly altruistic even when infernally sinful demons were casted past his vision invincibly and little did you know how much you tempted him to get to know you personally. What you were deeming was that if he resigns from the church sooner or later and commencing his own personal life, he’s presumed to date and looking for women around his age whether slightly younger or older than him.

“Anything wrong, Monsignor?” All of a sudden, the middle-aged security guard Frank approached the ambitious Monsignor and snapped him out of his contemplation, fixated on you and averting his cocoa brown embers from the outsight picture, framing your ebony silhouette ominously mirrored against the brick wall. In the meanwhile, Frank removed his cap, in order to manage his small, well-trimmed fingernails to scrap his itchy, clammy scalp.

“Not at all, Frank! Just sometimes I’m quite distracted.” Even when the British aristocrat tried his best to find a good excuse to prevail the cold shoulder you gave him just moments ago, what Frank, one of Jude’s favorite employees noticed in the member of the clergy’s demeanor was far from awfully undistinguished lately especially in the past few days shortly after you’re committed to Briarcliff. Although the security guard wasn’t quite fond of the director of the mental institution, his genuine concern aroused his interest to discover the symptom of his eccentric behavior lately nonetheless.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Couple of Hours Later or So_ \---

Once almost midnight was approaching within a several minutes, it didn’t stop in a halt Timothy to check on his rare bird after the dynamically hectic day they had.

In the interval, the Bostonian was getting ready for bedtime after peeling off the habit and unbuttoning it within a couple of swift motions and getting rid off from the conservatively rigid, shapeless dark gown. The sole garment that hugged her petite-frame was sheerly lily-white cotton nightgown as its hem flared across her ankles. Furthermore, the dark, wool wimple was casted on the top of hardwood dressing table and the lion mane of aureate old Hollywood tresses framed the round, full profile of the former sleazy nightclub singer. The dimming illuminated en-suite bedroom was bathed in artificial brass light. The patients were already jailed in their own wards for extra good night sleep and the common room was already shut. Nocturnal, lethal hush whistled in the corridors’ corners of the asylum until series of door taps caught off guard Jude, biting her lower lip.

Once she retired from the en-suite bedroom and strolled up to the shut office door, afterwards she unlocked it and Timothy was standing beside her, maintaining a suitable distance within a handful of inches.

“Good evening, Monsignor! It’s good to see ya.” Beaming smile glimmered across her rosy-coloured, soft as satin lips at the sight of the younger man, despite contemplating wee hints in his eccentric behavior lately, not leaving her sight.

“Good evening, Jude! I just wanted to make sure you’re alright before bedtime.”

“I know so far, Timothy!” At the moment, she was propping on the doorframe, steadily and lazily fumbling the doorframe’s wooden material with her fidgety, spider palish fingers, whilst holding her gaze with his. Lusciously alluring, realistic picture of the Bostonian didn’t enforce Timothy to avert his ogle. He couldn’t resist the sight of her released halo ringlet of silken old Hollywood gilded curls framing her porcelain, yet elderly-youthful complexion and when she’s out of her habit. She looked gorgeous into his eyes yet. “I’d like to know what makes ya to behave so strangely lately.”

“What do you mean with this, Jude?”

“You perfectly know what I’m exactly talking about.” Sternness and seriousness accented her northern lilt, tilting her head whilst the British compatriot manipulated his baby-pinkish lips in a pensive purse, pitching his mammoth, veiny hands in his charcoal-black slacks’ pockets.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with helping some of the wretched souls to find path to the light and God.”

“That isn’t even a good excuse, Timothy!” Suddenly the blonde snapped at him, bitterly nibbling on her upper lip leisurely, honing her hazelish-brown irises. “That {L/N} kid!” Frustration in clearing gruffily her throat broke Jude’s facial expression in a jiffy, muffling the cough with a palm over her mouth.

“I just want to help her.”

“Trying to help her?” Diabolical, daredevil sarcasm emphasized the rhetorical inquiry, while Judy tucked a fistful of stray, wild aureate tresses behind her petite, sensitive ear. “I can clearly see by the way ya stare at {Y/N} and what do ya exactly want from her!”

“Jude,”

“What?”

“You already know that you’re my only rare bird and I’ve never had impure thoughts of {Y/N}.”

“Think twice!” Meanwhile, the door swung shut in a stormy slam which flinched paradoxally the ambitious Monsignor and noting his rara avis’s toxic jealousy of the butterflies in his stomach he’s sensed since today once you had an encounter again. 


	6. Slashdance

** **✟ Oh sweetie, ** **

** **Monsters are real,** **

** **And they look like people! ** ** ** **✟** **

\--- ******* ****\---

Shortly after Timothy's brief, almost insurmountable clash with his rare bird as she raised the topic over you, nevertheless, Timothy retreated in his office by stripping off his clerical tiresome attires of the church and leaving his half-bare amusingly muscular, toned figure in a cotton, conveniently cosy nightgown with long sleeves and V neckline with a few undone buttons, exposing his kinkily hairy, masculinely toned chest.

Hideous weariness was clung to his identity and muscles and bones. Scarce rest functioned his vortex of thoughts and cells. His eyelids frequently drummed quietly in blink, coveting to be shut and collect sufficient rest for the imminent morning. The corners of his mouth were outworn to reproduce syllables and vowels after his strawberry-coloured tongue conjugated them efficiently.

Once the en-suite bedroom was illuminated in the dimming brass light, casting its own artificial light and saturating the British compatriot's chestnut hair, parchment and feebly jaded complexion, the idle, mere footsteps drumming against the cemented flooring were uneven as soon as he hopped up in his compact, sufficiently expansive bed and wrapping the duvet and tucking meekly his shoulders beneath the duvet's cosy fabric and space, ensuring balmy warmness shortly after turning off the lights in the desolated en-suite bedroom.

His fantasies were richer as much as his pretty impressive imagination. Little did the pious clergyman know how his creativity forged and heated the pre-mature thoughts as fertilising cores until their scintillating affect and paradox contaminate him with impure thoughts. More potent than a prayer. Sweeter and weaker than a sinfully luscious liquor, scorching the corners of his mouth.

Even when his mammoth, alabster hands fashioned in balled fists, clutching tightly the blanket to guard his frail skeleton against the common icy climate that whistled its own ballad in the asylum, his crotch bulged lightly, teasingly beneath his cotton oyster-white, plain boxers. Moreover, the solemnly took vows opted to maintain immunity to the man of the cloth depicting the impure thoughts and be involved in sexual acts, besides doing anything which was against his vows, career and anything holy, reckoning the almighty God.

Even when the priest was head over heels in love with Judy yet, nevertheless, the inescapable, phenomenal process of the butterflies, flapping and fluttering inside his stomach once he encountered you and throughout beholding each other more than once intensified his rusty feelings for not just one woman, but also an addition was added to the dilemma. No wonder why his aroused interest to get to know you wasn't occasional at all! You just seemed readily different than the others and after opening to him about the back story before your false commitment to Briarcliff, besides mildly alluding who's actually Cole, your former boss, he couldn't help, but not diminishing the escalated level of his interest in you. Even more his overprotective manners and green-eyed-monster once he caught you with nobody else than the falsely accused Bloody face Kit Walker was another defeat for him and menacing his tremendous hopes to keep you and protect you.

How is supposed a devotional, revered man of the cloth to be head over heels in love with nobody else than a former drug dealer? What kind of a romantic dilemma is going to happen even play out between a tremendously wealthy and worshipped religious holy man whose top priorities were working persistently, accomplish his own tasks efficiently, flawlessly and most of all rise in the highest tiers of the divine diocese? Is the power of love more potent phenomenon rather than the bloodthirsty, guilty yearn of possessing the exalted titles which were parallel to his morality and vibrantly, ironically contrasting his primarily, healthily human needs? The toughest questions whirled and twirled in his vortex of thoughts restlessly, yet exhausting him with a dilemma between dithering and emphatically venturing the daredevil decision.

His colossal, amusingly warm and stiff hand slithered downward after pushing his nightgown's hem and his spider strong, pristine fingers lingered on the cotton fabric of his boxers, fingering teasingly and sheepishly boyish the meaty bulge's higlands, contoured beneath the cotton underpants. Attractively breathtaking dust of cherry thick twin freckles powdered his well-sculptured, healthily ghostly pale cheeks with sweltering, bold heat creeping beneath the facial skin.

"Holy Jesus Christ!" It was amidst the fewest even the very first times whenever the pious clergyman didn't stifle hazily the cussing which were almost every being's impulsive blunt chanter anthem after pain, absorbed in their own disappointment or something foreign was being imbibed by their epidermis and organs even touch, depending of their conditions as well. Furthermore, his bulge was wonderfully spotlighting his hard crotch, swaddled warmly in the generous layer of thick, sticky heat between his legs. "Oh God!" Guttural sigh, coursing through the top of his brittle lungs surged the fresh oxygen, the pressuring pointless cloud of oxygen snorting his vulnerable nostrils, stilling constricted his eyelids and tinting explicitly unholy prospects in the heavenly reverie's realm. Admiring the stiffness of his erected manhood at his vehement erupting volcano of lava impure thoughts flooded back to his unholy side.

Tipping with the pads of his long, pristinely potent fingers the underwear-clad stiffness and shoving his virginal hands beneath the drawers. Afterwards he grabbed his erected manhood and commenced jerking off beneath the duvet after snatching to his knees with his only free hand the pair of underpants, giving him huger space to tease his manhood.

First and foremost, it was among the fewest times he’s genuinely touched himself especially his crotch though after his once attempt to masturbate during his adolescence and found his guiltily pleased, consequently the British aristocrat didn’t want to resume the act throughout the years, in fact, he’s already depicted God’s judgmental, fierce glares casted on him and shadowing his identity for the unholy, flesh act of pleasuring himself. Eventually when Timothy was sixteen-year-old young man with a bright future anticipated on his way to surefire and taking in his fragile hands everything he could change, his childlike curiosity pondered what would be like to touch himself when nobody was watching in his locked bedroom of his three-story mansion, owned by his family through the generations along with the indisputable immense wealth. What it would be like to grant himself modicum of pleasure at least once in his fresh life? What it would be like the solo-sex and how would affect him physically and mentally even when his tremendous piousness and re-reading the Holy Bible abundance of times were part of his lifestyle? Was that one of his biggest guilty pleasures? Would he woefully regret it?

Urgently ushering the heel of his hand and pads of his virginally strong fingers stubbornly teasing the sufficiently huge length and the stiffness lingering underneath his delicate hand’s skin, irresistible sore groans and moans harshly vocalized the nocturnal hush in the en-suite bedroom, stilling the contractions of his eyes. His impure thoughts already painted galore of lavishly portrayed illustrations, productively provoking his sexual aggression to drive him to guiltily pleasurable insanity. He could already picture his softly satin, naturally berry-coloured lips pressing a hardening, sultry kiss on yours and urging exceedingly his wet tongue to plug into your mouth, deepening into a French kiss and scarcely sharing inch proximity. Your bare fleshes grazing featherly-delicate and synchronizing, devouring the mutual fleshy sweltering, ardent warmness you selflessly shared with one another. His hairy, toned chest itchily tickled by your erected, mauve nipples which were rhythmically brushing and the soft fat of your breasts bouncing up with every violent, insatiable thrust as your core’s walls contracted his stiff length filling the once hollow’s gap. His mammoth, smoothly-calloused hands vehemently clawing every inch of your bare, creamy flesh and relishing the femininity embroidered your overall figure and sweatily sticky zapping your jaded-clad muscles due to the uncontrollable lust, desire and love enveloping generously your synchronizing figures. Your greasy hairs bouncing in the rhythmical choir and while fingering and combing his chestnut hair with your dainty fingers, admiring the crispy softness and hitched breathless groans and moans sailing at the top of your lungs and your climaxes were approaching. The clergyman coveted after planting his seed inside you and unplugging his cock from your core to snap your eyelids shut to look at each other’s thickly-coated perspirated-clad complexions with timeless desire, lust and love and his smoky quartz gemstones pursuing for your {E/C} gems, staring right at your brittle, translucent soul.

Within a few minutes of teasing his length and his fingers strong-willedly working on the stiff cock’s rough-textured layer, glistening juices and empurpling the hard crotch with erupting fountain of semen, elaborating the final prayers in hallowed groans and moans after unavoidably dipping in the mist ocean of his impure thoughts about you.

“{Y/N}, Jesus Christ!” Muttering under his breathy pant your name sent paradoxal paroxysm to his body of sweetness and insatiable pleasure after masturbating and lifting ounce off his muscles and bones.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _The Next Morning_ \---

\--- _26th of October, 1964_ \---

Within the approaching morning and being released from your cell for poor-quality breakfast and pretending to take your regular medicaments, you lingered on the threadbare, old couch with Kit alongside you in the common room, whilst the same French tune was playing in the background, amalgamating with the rich soundtrack of monotonous lunatics’ babbles, crashing irrationally their heads into the brick walls or dancing spirally.

“_Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__! __Routier pauvre et chantant__! __En tous chemins, en tous lieux,__! __Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__  
Il ne parle que du bon Dieu__!_”

“It’s unbelievable the vinyl recorder’s vinyl disk hasn’t been changed.” The young gasman emphasized, whilst lighting up with a lighter his cigarette after yanking surreptitiously an old cigarette pack somewhere from the common room and taking a drag at the cigar length, consequently emitting a heavy hoary cloud dim and the pungent nicotine reek wafting across your sensitive, tiny nostrils whilst the contagious nicotine laced his ivory, youthfully firm teeth as he offered you cigarette though you shook your finger, squinting up your {E/C} jewels at his trustworthy chocolate brown. “You don’t want a cigar or to take a drag at least?”

“No, not at all!” Quirk crinkled his fresh, palish forehead at the offer you were granted one-off and your vouch was far from crudely cold, offering him a benevolently reassuring smile, cradling your plumpish, naturally mauve lips. “Anyway thank you for the kind offer, Kit!”

“Anytime!” After dumping the cigarette pack on his left side, thereafter he took a second drag at his cigar length and blowing grizzly severe cloudy dim which ebbed out within the elapsing seconds.”I’m sure this vinyl recorder’s monotonously playing disk is just here to annoy us and part of Sister Jude’s game.”

“Or rather, her favorite song or her goody-two shoes’ meek minion favorite one?” Your attempts to guess the dilemma of the eerily humdrum song, playing on loop in the sufficiently vast room was far from easy, easing the bitter lump, seething your feminine Adam apple to manipulate your throat muscles to swig it surreptitiously.

“Or she was enough drunk while choosing the proper vinyl desk for this vinyl recorder?” The young man’s sense of humor was sufficiently contaminating your uncontrollable, guttural guffaws, hurting your stomachs at the punchline of the joke during the daredevil game you opted to guess or at least surmise why the sinister French tune was incessantly playing on loop in the room and nobody seemed certainly enthusiastic to dance even chant it out loud.

“Jesus, Kit! She’s a damn nun.”

“_À l'époque ou Jean-sans-Terre__! __D'Angleterre était le roi__! __Dominique, notre père,__! __Combattit les Albigeois.Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__!_”

“So what? There are some daredevil nuns who even dare to be tipsy and touch secretly a bottle of liquor even finding themselves deadly drunk as rabid dogs.” Meanwhile, playfully shrugging his broad, muscly shoulders, Kit attempted to play silly in front of you and enforcing violently a content, merry grin opening in a wide O your mouth, baring emphatically, cocksurely your firmly ivory teeth, wearing thousand patterns of merriness with great company, great punchline of the jokes and great sense of humor.

“I can scarcely imagine a devotional woman or a man of the cloth insanely boozing a bottle with liquor and then doing such-“ All of a sudden, the double door swung widely opened at the sight of your friends who were victims of a bar fight a few nights ago which caught you off guard, cutting you off curtly with a stutter, scratching your throat after acknowledging their presences after eyeing in the corner of your eye everything else which encircled you in a circle summoned your cunning perspective to study the surroundings promptly. The mirth didn’t fell from Frederic, Dana and Barb’s facial attributes, striding up to you and Kit, factly, they were far from frustrated to behold you again, regardless whenever you were set free or otherwise imprisoned.

“{Y/N}, is everything alright?” What it was oblivious for the young man was that your stare was darted not only to your solely loyal and true buddies, but also speechlessness numbed your whirlpool of thoughts and your tongue failing to craft the exact vowels and syllables, lurching in the corners of your mouth. “{Y/N}!” He nudged you to draw your attention momentarily as you glanced back at him, bobbing absent-mindedly your head in solemn agreement even when you didn’t harked his enquiry at all. His masculinely strong, alabaster fingers cradled between his forefinger and middle finger the nicotine length, shooting a skeptical gaze at the horde of young adults, fakening his vaguely kindhearted smile, spreading across his lusciously cherub, baby-pinkish lips. 

** **Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for this slightly short and sloppy chapter, nevertheless, I opted to update this book sooner than later. I promise some of the imminent chapters will be longer than certain. ** **


	7. Card Games

**✞ ** _The times may have changed,_

_Doctor,_

_but the nature of evil has not. _ **✞**

Within the elapsing hours of great blend of lukewarm indifference and sheer surreal mirth, the beaming smile glimmered spread across your cherub, naturally mauve lips, texturing thousand patterns of merriness. You spent a half an hour conversating with Dana, Barb and Frederic and telling them everything from the initial clashes with Sister Jude and Timothy up to the bakery shenanigans whilst you swapped with Shelley, besides the sinister atrocities about the infamous madhouse which was housing unholy fragments and criminally insane, embodying the general population's outcast. Furthermore, your pals acknowledged that the ambitious Monsignor is going to arrange your release within a few days only and Frederic and Barb were beyond mesmerized and scintillatingly believing each ounce of his promise unlike the redhead, who didn't deem the man of the cloth trustworthy at all.

Fortunately, thanks to the man of the cloth's liberal decision to subtract with a few hours your shirt in the bakery, you were currently playing cards with Kit, Pepper, Grace and Shelley. At first, you were bizarrely mesmerized by the French girl's amicability and how sheerly innocent she appeared to be with her demeanor.

"_Dominique, nique, nique! S'en allait tout simplement! Routier pauvre et chantant! En tous chemins, en tous lieux, Il ne parle que du bon Dieu! Il ne parle que du bon Dieu!_" The same French tune was yet playing on looped in the common room, eerily tingling its featureless instrumental and vocalist chanting the lyrics.

"So I'll be the first one to shuffle the cards!" Even when you haven't played cards for a long time, nevertheless, you still recalled freshly the rules and a sheet of paper was motionlessly crossing past your sight and your fidgety, spider fingers were idly playing with the pen, clasped between your fingertips, supporting the light-heavy item to jot down the score of every player even though when you weren't very aware of the rules in the notorious madhouse how if one of the staff members catches you with a pen and a sheet of paper, consequently your retribution belonged to the solitary conferment. Anyway after politely requesting one of the staff members to bring you the cards and finding stray pen and empty blanket alongside with an empty large-sized table to situate the card game, furthermore he permitted you to use the pen and the blanket for now, in spite of the strict rules. Gamely smirk perched on your lips as you ushered the plain pen to scribble Y/N on the top of the flimsy sheet of paper with its indigo blue oil inking the material.

"Before to start the game, do ya all know the rules?" The nymphomaniac flipped hedonistically partly her unruly greasy gilded strands onward, squinting up her lapis lazuli gemstones from Pepper to you in approval, moistening slyly her lips after manipulating to twirl her strawberry-coloured tongue to daub her chapped upper and lower lips' dryness.

"Of course!" The horde of adults, reckoning you emitted a croak in strong agreement, bobbing your heads to double your affirmation.

"Good! Let's shall start." After jotting down on the blanket the other participants' names, you managed to flex your throat muscles with gulping a salty lump, seething soothingly in your throat. "{Y/N}, did ya write our names?" In the meantime, you lifted your {E/C} gemstones from the sheet, meeting the inmates' inquiring gazes, fixated on yours with a sympathetically emphatic smiles, cracking upon their lips.

"I did! Everybody's names are there. Don't be so anxious, Shelley!"

"Splendid!" Her tongue clicked the roof of her mouth, propping her chin with the palm of her petite, weathered hand and dainty fingers cradling meekly her feminine, delicate jaw line, whilst narrowing her orbs after shuffling the cards randomly and manipulated your fingers to toss a tip-over card per a person, depending on the seat they're taking and counting the cards consciously until everybody earned nine cards alongside with you and you left the luxurious pile of tip-over cards in the middle of the grandiose hard oak wood table with solely flipped card 10 of Clubs alongside. "Here are our cards. Wohoo!" The stark, childlike mirth, dripping from the blonde's mouth after snatching instantly her cards, whilst the other players and you gingerly, plainly retrieved the nine pair of cards which were randomly given to. In the interim, you were recently equipped with Ace of Spades, 4 of Spades, 2 of Hearts, 10 of Hearts, 5 of Clubs, 7 of Diamonds, Queen of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts and King of Spades. Your slimly long fingers were persistently curled around the cards, scarcely demonstrating to the participants, in order to not break the rules' game unless whenever it's your turn to keep their wits about to score one another, depending on the matchless yet cards compared to the trio pairs which are suitable, judging the numbers and brands.

"_À l'époque ou Jean-sans-Terre! D'Angleterre était le roi! Dominique, notre père, Combattit les Albigeois.Dominique, nique, nique! S'en allait tout simplement!_"

"Your turn, Grace!" Quirking your {EY/C} eyebrow at the French compatriot with docile, humble nod of your head whilst fixating your {E/C} jewels on her, urging her after sorting her cards from descending to ascending number, thereafter an idle, demure gasp lurched from her mouth as vowels and syllables and instinctive noises were solely capable of her tongue's mastership's conjugation, whereas Pepper and Kit were utterly focused on the game and the blonde was eagerly anticipating her own turn which was after the juvenile gasman and the pinhead.

"Oh!" Stifling another reluctant, haphazard instinctive noise whilst maneuvering her lower lip to be nip between her front ivory teeth, she glimpsed clearly the diversity of cards, glinting beneath the saturating yellow-light bulb-clad, casting artificial light across her azure pools to illuminate the darkest corners due to the wee hours of the evening, looming in the small city of Massachusetts. Acute, utter focus was dedicated to her stare, darted to the cards and the 10 of Clubs and the flopped pile, hesitantly flushing heavily the coursing oxygen at the top of her brittle lungs. Scrutinizing for a split second and memorizing the pairs which weren't sufficiently suitable such as Ace of Hearts with 3 of Hearts and 5 Hearts, 6 of Diamonds along with 7 of Diamonds and 9 of Diamonds, besides 10 of Clubs along with 10 of Hearts and 10 of Spades, her game strategy was obviously peculiar and her only free hand's dainty fingers reaching for the flopped card by flipping to surreptitiously discover its number which was for her own surprise 8 of Spades, subsequently seizing her cherub, naturally mauve lips in a pensive purse and tossing 8 of Spades on top of 10 of Clubs.

"It looks like this game is going to be pretty fun!" The nymphomaniac swatted affably, lightly with no consequences your feminine, delicate shoulder blade, in fact, you and Pepper were the only participants in the game whose seats were alongside each other. "Come on, Kit! Show us whatcha ya got!" Then every player's attention was shifted momentarily to the juvenile gasman, while Shelley winked mischievously playful at him.

During his turn and his pristinely strong, meaty fingers were hooked and supported the cards' feathery light weight with 3 of Spades, 4 Spades, 5 of Hearts, 6 of Diamonds, 7 of Diamonds, 8 of Diamonds, Queen of Spades, King of Spades and Ace of Diamonds. Gun-shyness roughly textured his charming facial attributes, zipping his baby-pinkish, insatiable lips in purse, examining studiously his twains of cards until he didn't flip the impending card from the pile and peering over his, scanning promptly "2 of Spades" and subsequently snatching the card and dumping 5 of Hearts.

When the pinhead's turn approached sooner than later, throughout her big round lapis lazuli embers flamed determination after scanning momentarily her own cards and her tongue crafting the impulsively solemn, half-hearted snigger, battered out of her lips. Every player's eyelids were sheets-clad, perusing warily once again whatever they've got since the first turn. The ambience was perpetually intensifying, electrifying goosebumps smearing your epidermis.

"Whatcha playing, kiddos?" Oddly the unfamiliar male voice snapped all of you out of the cards' game, shifting your attentions to the middle-aged man, who seemed peculiarly kind-hearted and open-minded. Frank was visibly man in his late forties or on the contrary early fifties with a working uniform, swaddling warmly and conveniently his muscles and indicating his neat seriousness and diligent professionalism. The cap party obscured his hoary, neatly trimmed haircut which was capping above his dark eyebrows and ears. Nevertheless, his heavy wrinkles due to the relentless aging process strangely highlighted potently his still handsome face with scarce stubble. You could guess the security guard was a widower, losing his wife a decade ago or so due to cluster of reasons which are unexplainable. Your speculations may have nothing to do with the absolute reality.

"Just playing cards with special pals, Frank!" Meantime, the blonde flickered up her eyes to meet his glowing gaze, offering him a mischievously sympathetic smile, decorating her pallid, still young-looking complexion. “What about ya too?” Anyway you were far from coolheaded to peel a word, in order to protrude somehow his attention even though you’ve already acknowledged he doesn’t mean harm at all, howsoever, he’s just a middle-aged security guard who can either violently forceful drag you to the head nun’s office or on the contrary charge his jet-black, nicely polished club and attack you whether if you wanted or not.

“Nothing special, Shelley! Just doing my own job.” In the meanwhile, you tampered your front ivory teeth to gnaw on the raw spot of your upper naturally roseate lip during the inmate and the staff member’s small talk. “Sweet Jesus! The night shifts suck ass, however, they’re kinda worth, ya know!” As the card game was interrupted and you were absorbed in Frank, in order to not miss anything in the game in case, the former police officer extorted his cap, steadily grasping in his strong, white-knuckled calloused hand as his only free hand’s masculinely bulky managed to reach the top of his clammy head and scrap with his small, well-trimmed fingernails.

“I can’t stand the night shifts but here we go.” At the moment, the young man’s tongue forged the vowels and syllables, headstrongly constructing his imminent sentence, expressing his abhorrence of the night shifts on the gas station until his false institutionalization in the notorious mental institution, squinting up his smoky quartz embers at the former cop to maintain an adequate eye contact. “It’s just like a journey which every one of us is being through.”

"_Routier pauvre et chantant! En tous chemins, en tous lieux, Il ne parle que du bon Dieu! Il ne parle que du bon Dieu! Certain jour, un hérétique, Par des ronces le conduit,_"

“Exactly, kiddo!” Exhale flushed his vulnerable, tiny nostrils after putting back his cap on his hoary haircut, whereas you quirked an eyebrow, attempting to relate to the conversation that turned out to be a group verbal chat with more entrants, exchanging with each other personal stories and experiences. “Ya know as I used to be a cop and the night shifts were usually my second nature to be in the police station even when my wife was still alive, they were calling me to come, in order to investigate suspicious cases of homicides and kidnaps even crime scenes with tracks of crimes at least.”

“Go ahead!” The eagerness glinting the nymphomaniac’s smoothly-textured facial attributes and you were all ears to eavesdropping the former policeman’s shenanigans, enthusiastic grins thrived across your lips and you oddly found yourself ogling at the middle-aged man even when he could be your father or uncle by judging the huge age gap. Nonetheless, you found Frank simply attractive gentleman for his age and the wrinkles didn’t even revolt you except highlighting his outstanding facial features, glimmering their brilliance and grace. Moreover, your attraction to older representatives of the opposite sex was undeniable at all even though the head sister of the church of the mental hospital could be your mother even aunt and her indisputable grace didn’t frustrate you nonetheless.

“There were some difficult bastards to be caught on the crime scene even being arrested, however, my ex-wife had experienced miscarriages twice, despite our attempts to have a baby during our hectic daily schedules as she used to be a tailor and she’s being robbed even deadly threatened by some bastard burglars.” All of a sudden, the widower ushered his head to duck homesickly at the thought of his deceased wife and their strong-willed attempts to have one child at least, in order to derive their remarkable paraphernalia and small flat, nevertheless, his hopes seemed to be broken to be a family man with a child by his side at least.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it!” Even when you were so far sheepishly girlish to address the security guard with his first name, nevertheless, your benevolently compassionate side emerged from the remnants of your trust issues and creamily grained your parchment, youthful complexion, the grin was mopped off from your mouth and blurring the patterns of mirth, narrowing your eyebrow in melancholy.

“Don’t be sorry, {Y/N}! I’m trying to cope with the most precious thing I’ve ever lost in my life by replacing suffer, pain and grief with work.” Suddenly his tourmaline orbs were boozing your ogle, embarrassingly rimming them with crystalline tears which he opted to oppress them and cease them from their own existence, woefully beaming at you.

“I’m not blaming you for your wife’s death. You’re quite strong and stay strong!” That was the sole piece of advice you could give to the older man, returning ruefully the smile, swallowing hard, sensing heartache due to Frank’s heartbreaking back story and his obdurate attempts to prevail the loneliness.

“_Mais notre père Dominique,_ _Par sa joie le convertit.Dominique, nique, nique__! __S'en allait tout simplement__! __Routier pauvre et chantant__! __En tous chemins, en tous lieux,_”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _A Couple of Hours Later or So_ \---

After playing cards with your pals and Frank chanting his song about his back story and back to his career as a cop, it has been an hour since the orderlies were guiding the patients back to their cells and the day you’ve been through its eventful roller coaster from your old friends’ visit in the common room up to the card games was swaddling you warmly with laying restlessly on your outworn patient bed, contemplating blankly, glassily the jet-black ceiling and pondering profoundly in your vortex of thoughts, questioning your life yet and everything else.

All of a sudden familiarly masculine, monotonously drumming against the grayish cemented flooring footsteps caught you off guard and tingling humdrum tunes into your vulnerable ears, inhaling the pungent reek of bleach and rust, wafting widely across your nose. You dithered whose footsteps could be whether if they were the former policeman’s or rather, the ambitious Monsignor’s.

Once the footsteps vanished in the limbo and the clink of keys chanted its own ballad, inserted one of the rusty, old keys leading to your ward to unlock in a single click and swinging opened to the ebony prospect of the poorly furnished ward, subsequently within a split second the rusty, iron door was askew opened with a small space of gap giving sufficient access to your irises to peer and acknowledge the current visitor’s presence.

“Monsignor,” Stutter escaped your chapped lips, maneuvering sluggishly to gulp the bitter lump bubbling up in your throat, transfixing your {E/C} jewels on the askew opened door and Timothy’s masculinely tall figure approaching you in a stride of couple of meek steps. “What brings you here?” What it mesmerized you were his recent intentions and most of all, what it brought him to pay a visit to your cell.

“Just wanted to check on you, {Y/N}!” The velvety timbre, puncturing his English lilt has never failed to disappoint you at all and you were sensing gradually being head over heels in love with him. Still questioning your attraction to him and how you’re capable of falling in love even slightly opening up in front of him even when he was just a devotional clergyman and he didn’t have any time for friends, family and lovers. Benevolently beaming, calm smile was embellishing his facial attributes and you couldn’t help but returning the smile in a favor, sensing far from unnatural to grant him the same gesture due to your stark versatility. “Are you feeling better?” In the interval, he seated on the edge of your bed, mild, unavoidable blush powdering your chubby, well-carved cheeks due to his sincere politeness.

“Just a bit.” Affirming your own words with a meek, modest bob of your head in agreement, the older man skeptically raised an arch of his dark thick eyebrow whilst examining in scrutiny every petty detail about your petite frame from head to toes. Your mauve bruises tinting your fairly exposed arms and legs alongside with the dried blood and your sorely cracked lip. His pristinely strong fingers gently traced the bruises and wounds which even transmuted into hideous scars. The warmness prickled your epidermis with electrifying epidermis and coveting to eternally endless linger on your flimsy flesh, whereas your heart skipped a beat, glancing at the direction of his fingertips gingerly, delicately brushing the flaws. “Even Sister Jude hasn’t mentioned about their disinfection and cleansing them to pieces.”

“She told me she doesn’t want to do it, but I’m on another opinion otherwise.”

“Father,” All of a sudden, you felt muscly, amusingly secure arms snaking around your upper back and your inner thighs, consequently lifting you up from your threadbare, smeared in old, dried filth and blood bed sheets and furrowing your eyebrows perplexedly due to his unnatural strength for a man of the cloth. He didn’t even seem to do exercises or attend gym to train and flex his body muscles, but his physical strength and vitality were peculiar and flabbergasting, in your humble opinion. Instinctively you braced the nape of his delicate, palish neck with your both brittle, satin arms in the cozy nest where you found yourself immune to any damage and harm from the crude world as he stormed off your cell and shut the notoriously creaky rusty door and eventually locking up, thereafter glimpsing at the both directions, making sure you were all alone instead one of the security guards or orderlies who were taking an extra shift to catch you in double trouble. “Where are you taking me to? To that hag’s office?”

“I’ve to treat that dried blood and those bruises on my own. I can’t leave you as filthy as a stray dog.” At the moment, your forthcoming destination was literally his office and treating your flaws with disinfectant and whatever medical supplies necessitated even though you’re mesmerized how altruistically caring he proved to you unlike the woman of the cloth due to her coldblooded mercilessness towards the lunatics. Suddenly you haphazardly managed to purse your lips at his altruism, scarcely daring to peel a single word and refraining to sob which didn’t mirror your weaknesses or anything at all. Frederic, Timothy and somewhat Kit and Frank could be the sole males who were caring for you and their treatment towards the ladies was deemed as the most normal.


	8. Art of Tanctile Sensation


      **💉 **
      _Everytime I close my eyes_
    

_it's like a dark paradise _ **💉**

\--- ***** **\---

A handful of minutes after you dwelled in your new home which was reckoned as cosy and comfortable nest into the ambitious Monsignor's secure arms during the lift up to his office's en-suite bedroom, suddenly disappointment twisted across your facial features after Timothy dropped you gingerly on the single compact bed and swaddling you warmly with a duvet, blanketing your petite frame promptly.

"You have to wait to find the disinfectant and pad to treat the wounds and clean dried blood, {Y/N}!" At the moment, you readjusted the duvet and your reclining position, opting to sense the comfort pricking your figure, squinting up your {E/C} gemstones at the man of the cloth who was rummaging his bedroom's dressing table top drawer where he kept medicaments and first aid kits, in case, to treat his own unintentional welts, wounds and bleeding slits in the form of sinisterly blood smiles. His virginally brittle fingers rummaged strong-willingly, ambitiously every remarkable paraphernalia until he retrieved a sheerly oyster-white round pad and disinfectant with a thick, cotton cloth to daub the dried gore. "Don't you dare to think of escaping!" Even when bizarrely baleful sounded his caution to keep your wits about your passivity to maintain your muscles and bones motionless, nevertheless, you seized your naturally mauve, chapped lips in a pensive, attentive purse and following docilely his instructions. "I got it! Just don't move!" You reconsidered and assimilated his instruction.

"I promise." In the meantime, he shut in a diligent slam the dressing table's top drawer and approaching the compact bed, his rear perching on the edge of the furniture, offering you a benevolently soothing smile, heavenly brightening your facial features and your (E/C) embers flamed childlike focus, fixed on the clergyman who was far from uninteresting target, oozing of surprises and paradoxal mysteries which you may not explain yourself at all. After soaking with the disinfectant's liquid the flatly round pad, consequently you protracted your arms and legs leisurely, giving him a better access to treat the fresh wounds which were a few days old after unwrapping the duvet, in order to daub them with the flat surface of the drenched round pad, gritting your teeth at the foreign pinch of the disinfectant steeping the lousy plum tints, mapping your arms and legs which weren’t decently treated on the right time and the pain was sorely unbearable, stoicism looming onto your face, generous layer of clamminess thickly enduing your temple and glimmering past the British compatriot’s vision. His utter focus to aid you with healing the flaws from the bar fight incident was doubtlessly inexorable.

“Chin up, {Y/N}! We’ll get you healed and feel like a new person.” In the interim, your petite, calloused hands curled up in balled fists, opting to not show any signs of severe pain and sensitivity during your wounds’ treatment, besides rolling your eyes, stifling a gasp to roll from your tongue as your front ivory teeth nipped at the lower lip. After his pristine fingertips supported the tad and daubing your arms’ bruises, throughout he slithered down his attention to your youthfully long bare, alabaster legs, swallowing hard at the amalgamating sight of bare skin’s temptation which mesmerized him and the bone structure that seasoned the lower body, whilst on other hand choking on his salty lump, widening his chocolate brown gems as each chocolate pool glinted fierce fury how Cole has left a vast track of his damage, tattooed on you and nobody has dared to spend modicum of their spare time to manage the treatment of the vicious bruises. “Oh God! This monster has left vast tracks of his damage on you, {Y/N}! He deserves to be punished for everything and hopefully God plays his own cards right.”

“Hopefully he receives whatever he deserves for being such an imbecile!” At the thought of vengeance on Cole flourished a balefully smug, unscrupulous grin, opening in a wide O your mouth after you passed series of daubing touches, contacting the lavender tints.

“I know! {Y/N},” Suddenly the British compatriot tried his best to bulk you, honeyed touch punctuating his yet constructing posed question to roll from his strawberry-coloured tongue. “Do you believe in God?” The posed question tuned alarmed tones into your ears as you profoundly knew your atheism has always vastly roomed your heart and very soul at young age and the fewest times you’ve stepped in the church have nothing to do with your religion status. “Or at least, feeling somehow connection with God?”

Your attempts to reconsider and assimilate the enquiry which begged for your answer immediately or at least sometime the pit of your stomach was swamped salinely. Even when you wanted to not disenchant him with your lacking belief in the almighty God and to sense modicum of connection to God, it was inescapably unchangeable and your stomach swelled in the elapsing seconds of silence, arching between you after bedaubing the lavender flaws and dumping the round pad on the nightstand on your left, whilst snatching the saline solution to clean promptly the dried blood on your head, peaking to your forehead.

“I’m afraid to confess, Father, I’m not a believer in God and I don’t feel even any connection with him.” The heart rate rapidly rabid increased and highlighting the skipped heart beats after your stammer plopped from your mouth shamelessly, furrowing your eyebrows while the disinfectant was synchronizing its own effect to cure the plum flaws which once were sorely fresh and untreated.

After the saline solution soaked the cloth which he retrieved and grasped in one of his colossal, veiny hands, white-knuckled calloused in the grasp the cotton’s fabric manipulating to reach for your dried blood’s residuum, engraining partly your {H/C} scalp and the hairline with rigid textured-dried gore, subsequently the arid gore was smeared and staining the cotton fabric effortlessly, efficiently though the great deal of efforts, infused in getting rid off the gruesome remnants, reminding of the bar fight’s sequence.

“At least, we aren’t in God’s house to insult God and be charged in a blasphemy,” What it Timothy’s tongue conjugated was vowels and syllables, almost dying on his tongue tip shortly after they trundled from his mouth with great efforts, dark chuckle paradoxally accenting your lacking belief and connection to the almighty God, embodying the scoff parting upon his baby pinkish lips. “But I love your honesty, {Y/N}!” What the pious member of the church appreciated more than anything was your honesty even more than your belief in God and his Lord whose body, soul and mind belonged recently and essentially. Vaguely complacent smile spread across your dryly chapped lips due to the flattering compliment.

“Thank you, Father!”

“Do not thank me and stop calling me Father or Monsignor as if you’re repenting for your soul!” All of a sudden, the British aristocrat rolled his eyes after cleaning the dried blood and examining in a scrutiny for a split second the quantity of gore which compensated to endanger your health condition with infection whose chances of its cure are minimal. Moreover, you’re oddly finding comfort and coziness in Timothy’s company, so as he was feeling home with you, besides Judy, despite they must keep the professionalism moderately and weigh on scales the moments whenever they can be informal to each other. You moistened your lips after ushering to twirl your tongue idly to drench the upper and lower lip in haste as the clergyman dumped the blood-stained cloth in the bucket, pooled with sheer, crystalline water.

“Okay, Timothy! I’m so sorry for calling you formally.”

“It’s okay, darling! I can sense how fearful you’re.” Meantime, the older man choked on his words, emphasizing his last sentence, whereas you managed to reach your quivering petite, weathered hands to cup his cheeks instinctively to soothe him, stilling your unruly beaming, complacent smile decorating your chapped, roseate lips.

“Nobody has almost ever been that kind to me as you’re.” The confession which you elaborated to forge and make the revelation was as heartening as the holy man was, crystalline tears rimming your eyelids with each frequent choir of your blinking irises. “I’m sure you’re the one who’s being the fearful.” All of a sudden, your witty side snapped him out of his optimism and a wry frown smeared across his pale-pinkish, softly-feather lips at how sassy you could emerge with any word, regardless its sentence’s length and your education’s quantity.

“Fearful of what, {Y/N}?” Quirk creased across the cusp of his dark thick eyebrows, raising an arch of his eyebrow at you and the adjective you retaliated emphatically, unscrupulously, reconsidering rationally what the revelations foreshadowed, sniffling quietly to yourself as the pads of his thumbs kneaded gently your calloused knuckles, whereas his crystal tears glistened more brightly than yours. You could see how deeply hurt and touched was the ambitious Monsignor and how broken, misunderstood and his heart was enveloped and swaddled in a stone cold after joining the church and giving up the free lifestyle of getting laid with hussies, getting married to a perfectly beautiful and young woman and having their own children with their flawless genes, made of their flesh and blood, besides imbibing liquor and being involved in sexual activities. Your philosophy was quite convincing how every human being, regardless a member of the church or the lowest positioned in the general population’s tiers deserved a celestial myriad of love to keep their smiles shining more vibrantly and you could contemplate his sorrow and incarnation of his brittle soul how profoundly hurt was beholding his own peers or at least, adults around his age having their own children who’re already attending school and being happily married with their wives or husbands unlike him, serving the miserable cloth since his young adult.

“To be rejected and die all alone and unloved!” In spite of how selfishly the notion spotlighted and starkly steamrolled the priest’s confession, the heavy rain of tears poured on your {S/C} complexion, sensing your heart shattering due to the heartbreaking words.

“You won’t die unloved and full of barrens, Timothy! I’m sure you’re loved or at least your family cares about you.”

“No, they don’t!” The pads of his thumbs kneaded gingerly, lightly the satin skin of your weathered hands, admiring your frail femininity and vulnerability. “You don’t even understand they will never forgive me for betraying them by joining the church and overlooking their love and support so that to be such a jerk, who only cares about his ambitions, involving the papacy.”

“It’s such a shame your family doesn’t even love you and doesn’t accept you for who you’re.”

“It’s all my fault I left them just to pursue whatever I liked to do. Helping people and self-centeredly focus on my divine ambition!” The helpless side which you’ve never confronted of the holy man haphazardly weakened your sobs, pitching the en-suite bedroom in your attempts to dab the tears, trickling downward his lower eyelids and being the fewest person to listen to his revelation.

“It’s not your fault, Timothy! First and foremost, it’s never too late to be forgiven just because you’ve mainly focused on your passions which satisfy you.” In the meantime, you snorted a heavy, cold-blooded sigh, whilst nibbling on your lower lip to mute the imminent sobs. “I’m certain you’re a good person and you can help the people even if you aren’t part of the church.”

**Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for this slightly sloppy chapter, nevertheless, I opted to update as soon as possible. Furthermore, don't worry about this book! It's going to be way more interesting in the impending chapters with the rich variety of plot twists, involving not only Timothy, but also the reader. So get ready for a dynamic roller coaster! :))**


	9. I've to Look Up Just to See Hell

**🔥** _ Paint the sky,_

_make it yours._ **🔥**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _The Next Morning _\---  
\--- _27th of October, 1964 _\---  
  


Within the approaching morning swifter than summer breeze nowhere else than in the Monsignor's en-suite bedroom where you both shared separate beds, in fact, you weren't intimately close to each other, you were deeply drifted off asleep on the comfy compact bed. The mid-autumn climate was parallel to the common chilly climate that ventilated the lifelessly dull asylum’s walls.

At the moment, you could sense loneliness encompassed you or at least, you didn’t have a sixth sense of somebody else’s presence accompanying you in the bedroom except your somber silhouette, mirroring against the eye-catchingly abstract light bumblebee yellow painted wall which secured you on your right side. Snorting in a light-heavy inhale the mid-autumn, pleasant odor of lavender, amalgamating with the reek of dried-blood smeared cloth-clad wafting across your nose whilst your eyelids vacillatingly timidly trembling until your {E/C} gemstones snapped open at the partly light room and embraced by the wee morning’s saturating, aureate sun rays smiling to your partly illuminated freshly cleansed complexion from the dried gore and your freshly remedied hideously plum tints, scarcely rebukingly trouncing you with sore pain, pinching your flimsy epidermis due to the slightly late treatment which was better than being dumped hardly disinfected and disarming the infection’s malicious arsenal.

“Oh God!” After fashioning your white-knuckled calloused hands in balled fists to daub your groggy {E/C} gemstones and muffling a yawn, mounting your mouth afterwards, an inevitably haphazard grunt rolled your tongue as a tempest wave and pitching the hushing atmosphere with the eloquent morning birdsong, encircling the old, notorious madhouse.

Shortly after you came fully to your senses and the haze gradually, perpetually didn’t fog your vision any longer, subsequently you could behold everything clearer and more meaningfully. The aspiring Monsignor wasn’t even in the en-suite bedroom. Your heart skipped a beat abruptly.

Little did you know where he could be except if he’s in his own office or on the contrary fled his territory and getting back to his work. Or rather, getting dressed and ready for the day, factly, after scanning on Timothy’s nightstand the clock with the digitals, glimmering the approximate time which was “6:25am” in the morning, without thinking twice you’re readily sure it was high time for him to get ready even not delay with his arrival in certain places where his presence was obligatory such as the church and certain outskirts the small city of Massachusetts even out of Boston.

Moreover, what it startled you and snapped you out of the clock’s recent time was the security guards even certain staff members that are responsible for checking on the patients and their wards were perhaps starting to look for you even Sister Jude was after you after probably discovering your ward empty to pieces and acknowledging your disappearance even plotting her blood-thirsty punishment for you whether if she encounters you or on the contrary one of the staff members informs her about you. Your heart sunk in oblivion. You’re more than ready for another punishment from the coldblooded, stern sister of the church and encountering momentarily the canes’ arsenal, welting and wounding your bare rear, foreshadowing the sequence of your disappearance and spending the night in Timothy’s bedroom as he took care of you unlike her or the doctor who’s responsible for the patients’ conditions in his laboratory.

You were pearly grateful to the clergyman for being the only one who took his responsibility to refugee you to spend a night in a warmer, cozier bed with comfily soft duvet and cleaning the dried gore along with disinfecting the bruises. Eventually the clergyman had sufficient medicine knowledge to manage a healing of bruises and giving first aid to the injured which he’s been through his life and learning that from school in biology class. You didn’t even know how to grant modicum of your gratitude for everything he did. From the mellow consolation a few nights ago just when you’re jailed in Briarcliff up to your arranged release within a handful of days solely and taking a good care of you whom nobody from the staff members has done for you. The sole thing you granted him as myriad of your gratitude to the man of the cloth whom you possibly won’t encounter ever again after fleeing the lifeless realm of madness was listening to his story about how his family doesn’t even love him and he criminally, woefully regrets the rejection he ventured to his family with joining the church, solemnly taking his unbreakable, flimsy vows and pursuing persistently his golden ambition, besides his pessimism and intentions of finding his own death, buried beneath his frosty gravestone and nobody mourning over his death even daring to step beside his gravestone and set small scale of bouquet flowers, enveloped smartly to embellish the carob soil’s blanket.

The moment whenever you discovered Timothy was just a mere man with his own needs, feelings and desires was when you contemplated inexorably his red-rimmed coffee brown jewels, flaming fatly tears and your attempts to daub them from his porcelain, youthful complexion even to encouragingly console him. You could somehow you’re both connected spiritually though in different ways. His passion for the divine ambition and pursuing it eagerly was the reason why his family no longer was interested in him even didn’t demonstrate morsel quantity of their unconditional love for their heir, besides supporting him to ascend in the highest tiers of the church. Further, your grandparents who took care of you during your high school years and your short-timed drug dealer business, they’re tremendously ashamed of you and didn’t even support your decision to earn filthy wealth with distributing illegal narcotics to its clients, in order to strive for you and Claudia and Todd’s survival. You’re both outcasts of your families even though there wasn’t any heir of your roots any longer to resume altogether your family’s journey through the years and the generation’s evolution. Last but not least, what unconditionally connected both of you and you’re both ecclesiastically related to you both fled your own birth towns and emigrated somewhere else to have a fresh start, consequently opening a new chapter in your lives.

After unwrapping lazily the duvet from your petite-frame and hopping up in the comfy, threadbare patient slippers, a note was left on your nightstand along with a silver-polished hand mirror catching your eye.

Your instincts ventured you to admonish to read the note, although you zanily glanced down at the silver hand mirror, still questioning its item what has to do with the sheet of paper.

Shortly after yanking the sheet of paper and perusing the familiar manuscript which glinted past your vision, the inked paragraphs was scanned warily whilst whimpering a deep breath, seconds before starting to study the details.

_Dear {Y/N},_

_I know how odd it appeared to be the last night for both of us, nevertheless, I’m more than honored to save your life from taking care of your bruises and cleaning the dried blood which Sister Jude would never do due to her lack of tolerance towards new patients who doubt her. You don’t even doubt me at all. I noticed that she behaves quite strange lately, however, that’s out of the question._

_I don’t even know how to express my gratitude to you for listening to me the last night and spending each second to be all ears about my pain and how uneasy is to be a loner and most of all, rejected by your family who don’t love and support you anymore due to your choice. I think we’re somehow connected spiritually and I think I can hear what kind of plans God has for both of us._

_You’re amidst the fewest people who cares and listens to me or at least cares about me without judging me at first sight._

_The last night, you were undeniably vulnerable when I was taking a good care of you and what it struck me with amusement was how it was among the fewest peaceful moments we shared together without the staff members surrounding us. The silent night was just ours and it’s supposed to be our little secret, right? Neither Sister Jude, nor nobody else must know what we’ve been through the night before._

_No matter if she finds out somehow you weren’t in your own cell and she punishes you, chin up, {Y/N}! If she orders your imprisonment to be situated in the solitary, I’ll find you and release from that miserable place. Furthermore, your release is arranged for the next morning and you don’t need to worry about Sister Jude or anybody who considers you harmful, because I’m otherwise on another opinion unlike them._

_What it struck me about you was your honesty and how fearless you appeared to speak your mind even when you made a revelation to me you weren’t pious at all and you didn’t believe in God. I don’t care what you used to be in your past and that you were a former drug dealer in a short-timed business, but you’re quite interesting person. I don’t know how everything begun with such intension, howsoever, I’ve always found the honest ladies to be way more interesting even when they possess enigmatic aura, oozing of them just like you. I’m trying to guess your favorite colour is blue. Or I’m rather mistaking something?_

_I’d love to get to know you more, regardless the circumstances._

_You can check in the hand mirror your reflection and what happened to your bruises and the cleaned dried gore. Hopefully you feel like a new person, {Y/N}!_

_Wishing you the best!_

_From Timothy_

Within the elapsing minutes in perusing each letter, each word and each paragraph, poured in the blank and the ink’s oil smoothly smeared underneath the holy man’s name, you couldn’t help but flourishing content, merry smirk adorning your facial features and alight contour accenting your lower eyelids. You couldn’t feel more heartened by the ambitious Monsignor’s note and call him your own savior for managing the plum tints’ treatment and disinfecting them exceeding even hopefully keeping to his own words, paged up in the blank. In the interval, you dumped the sheet of paper on the nightstand and snatched the silver-lacquered hand mirror and initially commencing with your face’s profile, examining in a scrutiny the pure freshness of your young-looking complexion and how the hairline even your scalp were no longer thickly blood-stained, contemplating in awe and cherishing the British compatriot’s hard work to smarten your looks with his medical knowledge and beneficial usage in his practice. Thereafter you manipulated your avert from the mirrored reflection on the hand mirror and landing your {E/C} gems to encounter the freshly disinfected tints on your partly bare arms and legs.

Within a minute or so when you had intentions of fleeing surreptitiously the Monsignor’s en-suite bedroom and his office, once your petite, amusingly warm hand was met with the door handle and venturing it turned, a small open space of gap to peer childishly inquisitive, in case, if his office was delightfully empty to flee to your own ward before the security guards and the nuns begun looking for you agitatedly.

All of a sudden, light pinkness tickled your cheeks with bountiful layer of blush, heat uncomfortably creeping beneath your facial skin at the sight of the British compatriot’s turned back to put on his priest collar, whilst his bare muscular, alabaster toned back was turned to your gaze, scarcely averting your {E/C} jewels from the embarrassing vista of his naked torso. Fortunately, the man of the cloth wasn’t turned to face you even glimpse backward. You hungrily drank and drained with your jewels his alabaster, muscly arms ushering the priest collar clothing his torso, obscuring the marbled skin to be out of its realistic sight and concealed. A disappointed grunt, solely distinctive for you rolled out of your mouth, narrowing your artistically expressive eyebrows how the older man’s natural flesh was no longer glimmering its natural skin tone and it was currently donned in the miserable cloth of chastity.

Then you immediately shut the door and unwrapped your dainty brittle fingers from the door handle and squinted up at the cross, hanging on the wall and eerily cusping the both compact single beds, faking your pants and doing subtly the Sign of the Cross, whilst approaching slowly but surely with awkward footsteps the cross, reciting in a murmur a meaningless prayer due to your humongous luck for not being caught in trouble for contemplating the half-naked holy man getting ready for the day and putting on his top. On other hand, you craved to pepper his toned, muscular naked back with featherly delicate, creamy kisses and your palms grazing the delicate skin smoothly. Meanwhile, you found yourself helplessly swimming through the tempest waves of your ocean of impure thoughts, depicting already the tantalizing fantasies of running your elvish, weathered pallid hands his overall back, admiring his pure masculinity and muscularity.

The blush lingered on your twin chubby, well-sculptured cheeks, hardly vanishing in the thin air after emitting a sharp exhale and transfixing your irises on the cross yet.

\--- ******* \---

\--- _An Hour Later or So_ \---

An hour or so after you pretended to take your regular medicaments and having a poor-quality breakfast, you ventured your shift in the bakery with the other patients as your dough-greased-clad hands’ fingers were kneading dexterously the round shaped unbaked breads, stilling your studious stare to your current task.

The soundtrack of patients’ babbles and their fingers whether nimbly or clumsily kneading the dough to shape exquisitely the raw breads tingled monotonous tunes into your ears until what it was oblivious for you was the head nun of the mental institution entering in the bakery and approaching you in surreptitious, vain tiptoeing until you felt pair of alabaster, lean with flabbergasting strength arms snaking horrifyingly around your waist and dragging you out of the bakehouse without warning and without an ado, startling you and you writhed to escape the blonde’s grip which you acknowledged shortly after you sensed the extra weight burdening and trapping you in her own grasp which was far from vulnerably weak for a nun.

Antagonizing scowl thickened her Boston lilt, her mint breath fanning and generously brushing your earlobe though her balefully bared ivory teeth and dashing you in her grasp up to her office at the sight of ocean of inquisitive eyes of staff members and inmates, darted to you and Jude. In the meanwhile, the sole alternatives you had were writhing in her tight grip and blathering series of pleas which were pitching a desert’s whispers in its hushing, arcane ballad.

“It’s unbelievable I found your cell empty earlier this morning, Miss {Y/N} {L/N}!” At the moment, after swinging open her office’s door after with great deal of efforts dragging your figure to her office and pushing you violently, forcefully as you flumped clumsily on the cemented floor, the sound of the flump heavily juddering her office’s background after slamming vehemently the door shortly after stepping diligently and maintaining a handful of inches proximity together, curling her naturally mauve, plumpish lips in addressing you sardonically to belittle you. “Where you’ve been, you little slut? Screwing with Spivey?” You hesitantly turned to face the austere blonde, whose maniacal croaks whimpered at the top of her lungs, narrowing her dark thin eyebrows and furrowing her glaring hazelish-brown jewels at you, blazing her outstanding spleen and adrenaline pulsating into her body. “Huh? Isn’t that a brothel for ya, is it?”

“Sister, I haven’t screwed anybody for my own pleasure! I would never use anybody for my own pleasure.” Your palms lazily supported your weight, sitting on your knees on the icy ground, opting to abide as cool as cucumber and your integrity to aid you to flee the antagonizing territory promptly.

“What a bald-faced liar ya are, Miss {Y/N}!” Suddenly she strode up to the grandiose, glamorously lacquered armoire with rich collection of canes, sorted by their size. “On my desk!” Meantime, her spidery marbled finger ushered you emphatically to bend against her hard wood desk, hissing silently through her gritted teeth, scarcely averting her glare from you. “Now!” Thereafter her petite hand reached for the armoire’s handle and clicking in a single swinging open the double door to be embraced by the luxurious collection of canes, whereas you took your time to straighten your posture from the ground and manipulating to pat in dusting your own round knees and attires and bend against her hard wood bureau, following meekly her instruction, peering over your dainty shoulder the process of the blonde diffidently choosing the suitable cane to punish you for your disappearance from your own ward overnight.

“Jesus, Sister! Do whatever it costs you to punish me and I’ll swear up and down yet I haven’t done whatever you try to accuse me.”

“Okay, {Y/N}! Let’s make a deal.”

“Go for it!” After the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer slammed stormily the double door of the armoire and ambled up to you in cocksure gait, indicating her nervousness and revered position, whilst lifting up your patient gown’s hem and the sight of your bare buttocks glimmering past her honey brown embers as she fiercely pushed your face forward facing the hard wood material, hardly contacting your feeble facial skin. You were all ears to hearken the deal which you may take solemnly your vow to not violate it.

“Excellent, {Y/N}! First and foremost, I’m asking the questions and you give me a response. If I decide they’re true, you’re going to get away and I’ll let ya free.” In the interval, your folds were commencing to be soaked due to the sensuality which the blonde highlighted in her northern lilt, tingling angelic hymns into your ears even when she’s unbearably austere and professional as she leaned past your face, bleating the whisper and fanning sultry with her mint breath your earlobe, sending paradoxal paroxysm sedating your bones and muscles even weakening your knees which tried their best to support your weight to not demolish butterfingeredly, pristinely on the ground again. “Or otherwise, if you tell me a lie, two bloody canes behind yar ass per a lie. We good?”

“Sure!” You reaffirmed your position with a meek bob of your head in agreement, whilst the former sleazy nightclub singer charged the cane with a handful of inches from your butt-naked buttocks, hissing past your earlobe.

“Good! First and foremost, did you fuck anybody?”

“No!” Suddenly the first two whips contacting your bare rear with authoritative, unnatural force rendered you flinching from the spot, grappling tightly and strong-willingly the edge of the desk, subsequently footling an everlasting, inwardly throaty whimper, snapping shut your eyelids for a split second.

“Nasty liar! Then whom did ya have impure thoughts of?” Even when Judy was getting closer to the truth of your recent fresh impure thoughts of the ambitious Monsignor, you stifled a gasp after catching between your front ivory teeth your lower cherub chapped lip. “Huh?”

“Nobody!”

“A second lie! I guess, Shelley gives ya a horrendous example how to communicate with the men especially the Monsignor.”

“I swear, Sister, no matter if I was out of my cell or to steal from the bakery, I’d never take an example from Shelley!” The unambiguousness, puncturing your graveness was followed by another notoriously screechy smack, drumming bloodily your buttocks twice and leaving sanguinely-tinted welts and bruises mapping your ass cheeks shamelessly as you cocked back your head, although Jude managed to pull your mane of hair, pushing your face forward harshly to collapse forward on the cherry wood desk.

“Do not make it hard for me, {Y/N}!” Afterwards she tossed her cane in defeated stance and maneuvering to linger one of her hands to grasp your patient gown’s rigid hem, whereas her only free hand’s fingers shoved downward to your ass cheeks, caressing its overall prospect of welts and bleeding slits. “Ya have a final chance if ya don’t want to end in the solitary.” All of a sudden, you caught a glimpse of her bended petite-frame against yours, scarcely maintaining an appropriate distance as she captured in cupping your cheeks in the palms of her elvish, alabaster hands, ogling at you with amalgamation of abhorrence, desire and lust. You could yet question her sexual orientation and how she’s still after the juvenile holy man, you haven’t predicted her intentions to you nonetheless. You still knew that the homosexuality was immorally foul in the contemporary coldly crude world and it was deemed as nothing than a detrimental sin, staining your very soul. Your breathing hitched once you found your complexions scarcely swapping proximity in an inch. “Look at me!” Her caramel brown embers begged for yours, offering you an ominous smirk, curling across her rosy-coloured, plumpish lips. “I know what a little annoying wight of the devil you’re, but I’ve to admit you’re undeniably pretty, {Y/N}!” Little did you know what her manipulative intentions and would be she capable of violating you physically, besides mentally.

“You’ve to be kidding me, Sister!” Shivers pulsated down your spine of embarrassment and foreign sentiment towards the female’s intimacy, connecting your essences and fleshes when you sensed the delicate trace of the pads of her slim, long fingers tracing your well-carved cheekbones, admiring your youthful grace. “You treat me like nothing than your own slave.”

“Bullshit on top of bullshit, Miss {Y/N}! Let’s forget about the pain and the punishment I gave ya to behave better for yar lust towards men.” Suddenly you managed to roll your eyes which wasn’t unseen by the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer, slipping her thumb to brush gingerly, featherly your lower lip, staring right at your soul with her feline smoky quartz gemstones, imbibing your weaknesses and worries, oddly finding yourself molting under her gaze like a small, injured and flexible lamb. “Don’t roll those beautiful eyes of yars!”

“For how long have you wished to be that intimate with a female, Sister?”

“For first and last time, I’m not Sister Jude or whatever ya think ya can call me. My real name is Judy.” Instead of earning the answer you’re begging with your gravely posed question, meanwhile, the older lady rolled eyes, while you instinctively draped around her shoulders though you’d never expect your body language to correspond to the foreign phenomenally ambiguous sentiment. A sheepishly bashful, girlish smile swayed across your cherub cracked lips. “Judy!”

“Judy?” At the moment, the older woman hummed lowly in vouch, bobbing her head faintly, reaffirming your timid enquiry when you spelled her real name for first time, the frequent blink of your eyelids in choir corresponded to her batting her own long, thickly ebony eyelashes as flapping shadow infernal wings at you. “I like it.”

“Your name is prettier! And back to yar question which is going to be our little secret that I’ve always been attracted to males, but I’m slightly curious what it feels like to be with a woman.”

“Curious?” In the meanwhile, silver-tongued hum unzipped her naturally roseate lips, while you reconsidered her rational explaination and opting to assimilate after pursing your chapped lips for a several seconds. “Aren’t you actually married to God body, soul and mind, Judy?”

“I’m afraid my God doubts me and no longer worships my very existence, {Y/N}!” Suddenly she smacked her roseate lips with yours and capturing them in a hardening, steamy kiss and snapping clutch tight shut your eyelids like blinds at the surprisingly molting kiss which you shared altogether for very first time, while your slim, pristinely long fingers curled in a choir with your shoed toes in your patient slippers.

**Author's Note: From now on the weird plot twists' beginning of the saga emanate! Tell me how awfully weird I started the trio dilemma with the reader, Jude and Tim! **


	10. Goodbye Briarcliff

**☾ ** _My head_

_is_

_a very dark place_ ** ☾**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _A Day Later _\---  
\--- _28th of October, 1964 ---_

Within the approaching morning which elapsing sooner than a mild summer breeze, tickling and fanning playfully the surroundings, it the elapsing hours were a dynamic roller coaster in your and the members of the clergy's cases.

The arranged release. A medley of genuine felicity to savor the freedom's true taste and despondence, not due to anything else than missing the friendships you made with Kit, Shelley, Pepper, Grace and most of all, one more person who wasn't part of their common guilt. The one who took an adequate care of your freshly sore wounds, left untreated and menacing balefully to engulf the immune system and its stability after plaguing with a difficultly curable infection. The one who has even confronted the woman of the cloth back to the night of your false commitment to Briarcliff. The one who cared even more about you rather than himself. The one who will genuinely miss you and rot after your disappearance. The one you felt desperate spiritual connection with, due to sharing a few things potently in common. It was Timothy Howard. The name laced your tongue sweetly and bitterly in the same time with amalgamating flavours which you still questioned.

It was almost approaching noon and one of the orderlies was securing the room where you were getting ready to flee the mental hospital within a couple of minutes only. At the moment, the ambitious Monsignor was waiting outside the room with the staff member patiently, fidgeting his fingers and the taxi was about to arrive past the mental institution's grand massive stone stairs outside.

In spite of nobody acknowledged the kiss which you surreptitiously mottled in with the pious sister of the church, nevertheless, you sensed how bizarrely monstrous the kiss affected you and most of all, yet questioning how you didn't even venture to stop in a halt the process.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the lusciously cherub, attractively roseate lips of the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer yet haunted you and the silky softness grazing the delicate raw spot of your pair of lips yet lingering. You were far from oriented how to feel about the arcanely lustful moment which was a pure manipulation to drag you out of the infernal ruins of the retribution which she considered you deserved due to your disappearance overnight. The solitary.

Even when you had modicum of trust in the aspiring Monsignor, you were far from determined and cocksure to inform him about everything, taking its place in his rare bird's office. You sensed a fountain medley of sheer mortification, stark nonplus and mild irritation brewing and cooking inside you with adrenaline pulsating into your figure. Exquisitely contaminating your vortex of thoughts with questions whose answers were begging for bonus time whether to object your versatile abstinence or on the contrary risking ominously to open in front of Timothy about anything that puzzles you. Even though you weren't quite close to one another, you still doubted you might encounter him except in a local church or hallowed site ever again. Your vast enthusiasm to get to know Timothy as much as his luscious covet to discard the cloak of your enigmatic character was still a challenging, dithering mental agony.

There was a wardrobe with opulent attire choice where you could choose and try on anything that is sufficiently comfy to hug your petite-frame, although the limited time you've until the taxi's arrival at last.

The amalgamating soundtrack of wall clock's uneasy ticking, despondently high-pitched inmates' bewails and the heavy rain, overally pelting down the small city or Massachusetts and its luxurious beehive of raindrops slapping the closed windows and walls of the old, grandiose asylum's façade.

In the meanwhile, you were standing beside the monumental round-framed mirror, smartly primping yourself after gathering an exquisitely matching attires and subsequently contriving via improvising and using your fashion taste's philosophy to determine which kind of garment may match with, judging its true color, design and pattern nonetheless.

Your petite-frame, baptized in freshly healed and disinfected plum bruises was donned in nothing else than plain, sheerly oyster-white underwear, cozily covering your most intimate parts and sufficiently bland and slightly outdated to be far from authentically eye-catching. Scarce glossiness glimmering past the brilliantly crystal mirror reflection, manipulating in cloning your figure. Your disheveled (H/C) mane was bouncing unevenly after you pulled over your arms into the pumpkin orange cashmere top's sleeves, peeling heinously your arms like shed snake skin. Thereafter you hopped up in comfy, practical jet-black pleated skirt, flaring slightly above your youthfully round shaped knees, matching with thin, graceful jet-black stockings, embroidering your legs with thin fabric, engulfing the common chilly climate and stilling the body temperature. Last but not least, you paired your outfit with ebony black, dashing Mary Jane shoeing your feet and a charcoal gray autumn coat hugging your frail skeleton along with black and pumpkin orange doted scarf, casually elegantly tied and swaddling warmly your delicate neck.

You snatched a comb to comb your frowzy, lacking of gloss unruly strands and raking the knotty, kinky wires as your nubile, weathered hand grasped the comb, manipulating to untie and neatly dolling up your greasily lifeless mane.

Shortly after dolling up your appearance within a handful of minutes and examining in a scrutiny from head to toes, in case, if your expectancies to meet the proper combination with colours and designs even patterns weren't extravagant at all, a weak, complacent smile with rigidly woeful texture ingrained your grin, opening in a wide O your mouth, subsequently you casted a wink, glinting back at your manipulated reflection for last time, relishing the photogenic tones of heavy rain.

Your childlike euphoria to accomplish the ultimate freedom of beholding the light and joining the general population beared a semblance as if you're in seventh heaven clamped your leaping frail heart in the rhythmic pulsations, throbbing into your ears at the elapsing limited time until you can get into the taxi to your dream destination and never turn your back to still live for your past.

As soon as you retired from the grandiose, round-framed mirror and snatched your purse from the oak wood dressing table's counter with a couple of remarkable paraphernalia being part of your golden journey such as a wallet with money, keys for your flat, a small notepad, a pen and so forth, the docile, feather drums of your Mary Jane clacked against the dully concrete flooring, your solely free hand manipulating to reach for the door handle and swinging open the door in the turn as you were embraced by the sight of the clergyman and a sanitarian. A huge, vaguely benevolent smile was tattooed on the British aristocrat who inspected your petite frame warily in a scrutiny from head to toes, admiring and being in awe with every advancing second of the elapsing hourglass with your youthful, femininely defined looks, illustrating with sheer luster in its style and casualty. His chocolate brown gems pierced through your {E/C} gems with benevolence, whilst the elasticity of the silence was glimmering its stretching line and tightening your very essences.

"You okay, Timothy?" Suddenly the sharpness of your snap powdered severely your inquiry, being far from careless about the older man's current condition, battering its reflection mirroring his porcelain, still young-looking complexion, squinting up his smoky quartz jewels at yours.

"Yes, I'm totally fine, {Y/N}!" Meantime, the young man shook his head to try his best to cleanse his impure thoughts of you, immersing his vortex of thoughts and the absent-minded dark silhouette thickly, elegantly cloaking his charming facial attributes, readable like a book with its spread pages to you. "You mustn't be so fearful about my condition."

Without any further verbal elaborations, gearing your tongues and vibrations scarcely simmering to be conjugated until they roll from the tongue tip effortlessly deft. Managing nods in agreement seconds before departing altogether in the same direction with regard of great respect to you and didn't want even to dash up to the taxi all alone at all.

In a handful of minutes after descending the spiral stairs which owned a prominent name with its own owner Sister Jude _Stairway to Heaven_, subsequently the humdrum choir of footsteps echoing against the concrete and smoothly brattling restlessly shortly after the mid-autumn gentle breeze softly fanning and dancing its invincibly invisible ticklish waves.

At the moment, the Monsignor retrieved a pocket classy midnight black umbrella spreading its own flapping ebony wings, guarding onward your heads from the rich heavy rain, slapping the umbrella's fabric clumsily, stubbornly. Further, you just bobbed your head in expression of your gratitude, vaguely blooming your cherub, chapped lips, steadily curling your dainty fingers around the purse's strap, supporting your shoulder blade.

"Thank you so much, Timothy!" Meanwhile, the taxi driver held steadily the passenger back seat's door gentlemanly for you, stepping aside to give you ginormous empty space to readjust once or twice your seating posture at least after bending to take a seat in the vehicle. “I don’t even know how grateful I’m for everything you did for me.” Shortly before bending to seat on the passenger back seat, you could scarcely crane your gaze, engulfed into guzzling greedily the British aristocrat’s handsome facial features which were readable like widely spread book’s pages from the first ever page up to the final one. Wry woefulness embellished his facial features, stickily veiling with almost invisible luminosity his coffee brown embers with crystalline, lapis lazuli translucent tears, blurring his perpetual vision. You could tell something was tearing off his heart on millions of shattering flimsy glassily pieces and even when the man of the cloth opted to mask surreptitiously his sorrow and homesickness over the brief, nevertheless, prominent moments you shared together in the orderliness a few minutes or slightly more were the most precious you’ve ever shared with somebody inside an ironically sinister mental hospital, well-known residence for criminally insane who were the outcast of the general population and their isolation was in institutions to seek cure and guidance to the light and God. Last but not least, your great deal of efforts to astutely shrouding any allusions of sorrow and heartbreak, overally written across your youthful facial attributes and you didn’t have anything to be part of your complacent initiative to return the favor to the priest except being all ears always for his stories or anything fundamentally importuned for attention.

“I’d rather be extremely thankful to you for listening to me and understanding me, {Y/N}! You did everything what you could.” In the interim, his solely free colossal, dumbfoundingly warm and solacing hand managed to reach for your upper back, thus maneuvering his pristinely masculine, milky fingers to work on kneading solacingly the sensitive skin of your fleshy upper back’s site, diminishing the low spirits invading you with guilty conscience for your spiritual poverty to equalize your selfless generosity and gratitude to his. “But {Y/N}, I’ve something for you!” Suddenly whilst the pads of his fingers supported lugged the pocket umbrella’s handle, his only free hand slithered from your upper back down to his jet-black rigidly wool, conservative blazer and retrieving clumsily a midnight black single rose, the pads of his virginally lactescent, creamy fingers’ only free hand warily mooring the handle with cluster of spines the smooth area where he wouldn’t welt or scrap ferociously his delicate skin. “It’s for you!” The older man handed you the naturally midnight black rose to you as paradoxal paroxysm glazed icily your bones and muscles with tranquilizing sedation, contaminating your muscle nerves and bone structure in possibly most agonizing strategy. Your {E/C} embers flamed vague discomfort, sheer inspiriting and childlike embarrassment blandishment, tickling with unblemished crimson powder your well-sculptured cheeks and sweltering heat trudging beneath your facial skin vastly.

“Timothy, that’s tremendously,” Your hitched breathing whilst examining in a scrutiny in awe the black rose which you’ve seldom behold in the absolute reality sheened its true nuances of pulchritude, esthetically battering the uniqueness of the one of a kind single flower with its uncommon colour that was flourished unlike the original red, white and roseate. “Tremendously nice of you and I couldn’t be more thankful about everything you do for me even this rose,” Shaking your head in failed attempts to cleanse your tantalizing medley of fantasies and unimaginable scenarios with the devotional clergyman, crystal, translucent tears were gradually, persistently clouding your vision, resembling the heavy rain staining the windows’ flimsy glasses with its own salty, stark tears and wetness christening the material after the natural phenomenon marked its own celestial culmination. Tearful, ruefully content smile roughened your neutral lips’ texture and graining them with a salmagundi of happiness, melancholy and soul-stirring ballad, chanting inwardly its tuneful tones and throbbing into your ears with the heavy heart pulsations and the heavy rain. The stability of your smile was irreparably untainted wight of the sequence of Timothy’s heartwarming gesture. “But it’s quite unnecessary all this! I’m just a-“

“Shu, shu, shu, {Y/N}, do not say it’s unnecessary! Every lady deserves a flower especially the one who’s capable of altering somebody for better with her own presence!” In the interval, your {E/C} bijous wrenched lowered lingering in the scrutiny prospect to inspect the black rose and the ornately enveloped thin scarlet bow, lashing the handle with a special label of a short precious message for its receiver _For you, dear {Y/N}_. Your heart skipped a beat after scanning the special message, labeled with the enveloped bow and glimpsing back, subsequently transfixing your stare at his cocoa brown bijous, sobbing quietly, sticky snots bawling faintly your sensitive, tiny nostrils and tears trickling downward your cheeks fatly, lubricating with its own dew of moisture the marked territory of a savage beast after slaughtering his own chased for a longtime prey. “I know you like different things and the common ones bore you to death. That’s why I’ve chosen this black rose, reminding me of your one of a kind soul, full of warmness, goodwill and honesty!” Little did you know how the priest has sneaked subtly during his hectic daily schedule to stop in front of a flower store occasionally or intentionally even spending a couple of minutes choosing the exact flower or rather reminiscent present for farewell. Why he’s being readily amiable and selfless to you even sacrificing modicum of his spare time just to please you and to behold the moment of tugging the content smile, curling upon your lips? Why a holy man would be interested in anybody, howsoever, a former drug dealer who’s a full orphan? It was a sheer taboo dilemma. There were fewest cases where the priests were head over heels in love whether with a sister of the church or just a woman from the general population, regardless how young or old she’s actually in the reality. Your berry-coloured tongue could barely elaborate any vowels and syllables and gearing them in a constructed rational response to his gentleman gesture and farewell present, measuring how speechless you were eventually and the sequence of the platonic gesture tempered your vocal stings, ebbing off from its genuine vital stamina.

“Thank you for everything, Timothy! Farewell!” Seconds before hopping up in the vehicle, you stilled your ogle at the aspiring Monsignor, grazing with his coffee brown irises your petite-frame from head to toes and beaming ruefully at you.

“Farewell, {Y/N}!”

Within a couple of seconds, you hopped up in the taxi car and readjusting your posture as you unwrapped your purse’s strap from your shoulder blade and gliding alongside your left side after the taxi’s door was slammed stormily and the driver ventured back to his driving seat, whereas you looked out the window, darting your big round {E/C} cabochons to the tall, masculine figure, donned in cloth of chastity not retiring back to the monumental building’s front door to resume his business or tasks’ process. S

“Where to drive you, Miss?” The owner’s enquiry, begging for your direct response was a man in his early fifties with grizzly hair with baldy spots and chestnut highlights petering out its own lavish due to the merciless aging process. His bulky body-structure and noteworthy height, objecting no shorter than 5’10 were finely adorned with casual hipster garments, indicating his fashion style and matching interestingly with his thick, hoary beard and fair skin tone.

“To Casino Purple Firework!” Even when your absent-minded state of utterly focusing your attention to the British compatriot, lingering your spidery slim fingers around the single rose’s handle, drawing the midnight black rose to your nostrils, inhaling admirably the alluring fragrance of its flower once it delicately abraded your upper lip, you tried your best to guide the cabdriver your actual address’s impending destination, clearing your throat softly shortly after admiring the alluring fragrance of the flower, squinting up your eyes at the British compatriot who was daubing his own tears, pouring down his lower eyelids and taking a notice of the lavish rivulets, beleaguering his smoky quartz cabochons.

“Alright, Miss! We’ll be within a half an hour to the destination.”

When the cab’s engine commenced buzzing with its dreary ode, hammering into your ears and the car was pulled off with a moderate speed, megawatt horsepowers pressed into the cab and you could find yourself sobbing silently, reclining on the window, side eyeing the notorious asylum and its figures, whether pacing or scarcely changing their own apex’s location to favoring miniature physiques until they were eventually out of your sight. The juvenile man of the cloth was your amnesia’s second choice or on the contrary third wheel to escape from your obsession with him and the moments you shared along.

Once you get back at your flat and encounter your friends, the fresh start begins and opening a new chapter in the book of your life to erase the nightmare you’ve been through just days ago with exception of certain moments which were far from futile to vanish in the bimbo. 

**Author's Note: Since it's the 10th chapter of this book, what are your thoughts on this book up to now? Do you still like and enjoy it, in spite of utterly focusing on the reader and somehow accenting with a spotlight Timothy and some other characters which take somewhat minor or major part of the storyline? **

**If you aren't a keen fan up to now, I'm not blaming you, because it's just the beginning of the saga and the sequence of some actions, taking its place whether in this chapter or a few chapters ago will be part of major or remarkable plot twists in the sequel. I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter! :))**


	11. Afflictive Insomnia

** **   
** **

**** ** **✨ ** ** _Another sleepless_

_night trapped in my_

_own fucking mind._ _ ** ** _ ** **✨** **

** **

** **

** **

\--- ******* ****\---  
\--- _Later that Day _\---

Hours after hours, elapsing after one another together and boding every advancing hour from the day-and-night episode, the heavy rain hasn't even ebbed out in the small city of Massachusetts.

The gloominess of the weather was equalizing the ambitious Monsignor and your homesickness and the scarce delightful wish to depart from one another even though your arranged release was a fact sooner than later.

Even when the British compatriot tried his best meticulously getting you out of his mind once you were out of his sight with tasking himself with collaborating with Sister Jude and Sister Mary Eunice and visiting certain sites where his presence was obligation, the intensifying, everlasting hurricane of thoughts balefully contaminated to imprint timelessly.

Wrenching his sheer pride and sacrifice to behold the genuine pattern of mirth donning your lips after giving you the farewell present for your Briarcliff leave, the vivid memories of your smile, your dainty fingers curling around the single rose's handle and your flattered words, severely touched with stark gratitude and were eroding smoothly, finely.

Just when the holy man got back to Briarcliff in the wee hours of the evening after visiting certain places and stilling his hands on the steering wheel of his jet black cab, thereafter the tiresome buzzing of car engine halted in a stop and the heavy rian slapping roughly the windshield of the cab when he was picking up his own suitcase and hopped out of the car by locking it without thinking twice.

As soon as his tall figure was starkly exposed to the natural phenomenon and devouring God's bitter, unattractively sultry tears of despondence drenching his conservatively wool attires of clergy, subsequently he dashed to the madhouse's stone massive without turning back to his vehicle once again until generous layer of moisture baptized him, coating his attires, chestnut hair and milky skin tone with bitter staining-wetness, drumming monotonously until he towered effortlessly, ruthlessly the massive.

Even when the rain has played its own cards right to drench with modicum of God's undeniable sorrow, fertilizing the plants and nature to flourish into something they're going to escalate with their maturity, at least, the British aristocrat was beyond relieved and sensed modicum of christening even when his body temperature opted to bear the wetness, ominously menacing his flu and health condition to diminish its own healthy percentage with weaker body temperature and affecting certain prominent body parts.

Lingering the small, vulnerably benevolent with graining textures of woefulness smile, he opened the double front door of the old, dilapidating madhouse with an ease and his tall figure maintaining an adequate proximity with the marbled, definedly well-sculptured statue, representing St. Mary and the Stairway to Heaven with a couple of staff members dragging writhing patients, croaking their desperate roars at the top of their brittle lungs, indicating their genuine protest. The pungent reek of urine, death, heavy medicaments, poor hygiene and medical supplies were clung to every surrounder’s frame, wafting across Timothy's vulnerable, tiny nostrils.

Once the pious sister of the church was cascading humdrumly the spiral stairs as Timothy was bulked into the violent ear-throbbing ballad of midnight black classy chunks drumming against the concrete, her petite, alabaster hand glittering the gracefully lacquered handrail like an oblong venomous snake, slithering vainly in her own direction and lugging her own weight up to somewhere, his smoky quartz bijous landed on the petite frame, tugging yet his benevolently sly smile.

"Monsignor, what a relief to see ya!" Shortly after the older woman descended the Stairway to Heaven and maintained an appropriate proximity with the younger man, measured in its approximate number of a few inches solely, tugging a huge, sympathetic grin at her opened mouth in wide O, her ivory marbled enamel sheening past his bijous. "Did you send away that little Juliette of yars?" In the interval, her naturally roseate, plumpish lips parted in the scoff, computing its sheer, genuine myriad of sarcasm, oozing of her Boston lilt that illustrated her childish, informal side.

"Jude," The graveness, puncturing Timothy's authoritative timbre thudded his honeyed address to his rara avis without increasing the decibels of his voice, narrowing his eyebrows at her scoff which was clearly offending, in his humble opinion. "Do not call her like that!"

"Then how I should call her, Timothy?" In the meantime, the both pious members of the church ventured in pacing in the abysmal, dim light hallway of the madhouse. "Yar excessively nice to {Y/N} unlike the other patients which you're moderately polite to them. Huh?"

"You didn't even give her a second chance even to listen to her story and give her some credit she isn't delusional at all." Even when the clergyman opted to defend {Y/N} and his cussing optimism and realism blended altogether, thus a heavy sigh elaborated the Bostonian's ribcage, darkening her glance which were a successful way to tighten her stare at the younger man's charming facial attributes.

"She even showed signs of verbal aggression and yar defending her?"

"Nobody isn't a saint, Jude! She isn't a saint neither." Suddenly once the pairing stormed off to check on Doctor Arden and his ongoing experiments, the blonde stifled a frustrated, furious groan after tugging her lower plump lip between her creamy-coloured front teeth. "Even the electroshock therapy idea for her punishment was far from adequate and it's going to make the things worse for an innocent girl like her. Just imagine what kind of insanity we'd burden her shoulders with." In the interim, the young man manipulated one of his virginally marbled, strong hands' fingertips to daub the generous, sticky layer of perspiration, glazing above his dark thick eyebrow." It's really unnecessary since she's been through a lot."

"You're worshipping her and talking about her as if she's yar God." Cold-blooded gasp rolled from her pink mouth, lowering her gaze to transmute it into a glance at her classy chunks hovering beneath the cemented flooring, she elaborated to flare her tiny, flexible nostrils.

"That's absolute untrue! I just find her innocent in that case." Once the business partners composed themselves beside the door and vacillating tirelessly sweaty who's going to rap on the door, animating alarming noises to keep the former Nazi war criminal's wits about his recent visitors. "Jude, in fact, that you're in charge of this facility, it doesn't give you the right to judge some patients and treat them as if they've caused any harm to you." What it was shredding the younger man's flimsy heart on trillions of glassy, crystalline pieces and overflowing a rich cataract of heartbreak and frustration was how the Bostonian was harshly, brashly judging and labeling labels on {Y/N} without even daring to listen to your story and subsuming the recollected piece of information into her mind with ocean of thoughts. Moreover, the British aristocrat hasn't anticipated anybody to be brashly and impulsively judgmental towards you behind your back and he's always deemed Jude as his own rare bird with one of a kind character, outstanding discipline, sheer intelligence, authentic charisma and youthful appearance and keep dolling up herself with sufficient quantity of cosmetics, powdering her facial skin and hydrating and fertilizing its glossiness even though they're pretty futile, factly, she's a devotional woman of the cloth. Unlike the majority of the diligent nuns, the Bostonian wasn't sharing partly anything in common with them and her presentable toff self-consciousness pressurised her due to her former lifestyle to smarten herself with trimming her long mop of aureate luster tresses with shortening with a few inches from their excessive growth and natural, healthy fertilization as well, besides evading any bids with her rapid hair growth and esthetic bloom through elapsing weeks and months.

"Who is going to knoc-" When the former licentious jazz nightclub singer's berry-coloured tongue lubricated the vowels and syllables thickly to drip from her mouth in vague stammer, suddenly the senior doctor's office door swung opened, his tall, gracefully elder slender figure standing beside the shorter, younger uninvited guests. "Doctor Arden!" Sternness punctured the nun's timbre, emphasizing Arthur's professional title, squinting up his lapis lazuli, oozing of intimidating moonless tenor’s reverence, coating densely his indiscernible jet-black pupils, amplifying his nonchalance’s climate of his eyesight.

“Sister Jude and Monsignor, I haven’t been expecting you so far!” Stepping aside to allow the both pious members of the clergy to set a foot in his austere, expansive office, the both smaller frames staked with their own very presences the office, glimpsing in each corner and angle of the grim site, in case, the Bostonian wasn’t quite fond of the former Nazi war criminal and even more it admonished her to fence with her boss about him, bringing it as a top somehow on their coq-au-vin Friday dinner night a couple of nights ago. Further, the former licentious nightclub singer has always regarded the arcanely enigmatic, hideous doctor of science as nothing than cynical character who profoundly obscures galore of gloomy secrets of his own infamous past and reputation which haven’t encountered the absolute reality of its foes, hungrily coveting to discover who really is Dr. Arden into their eyes after surreptitiously devising to sneak into his personal belongings or at least possessions to collect modicum of information about his detrimental inner antagonist, mirroring his manipulated silhouette escorting him and veiling his tall figure. “What brings you there in this part of the day?”

“We just wanted to make sure if everything is fine, Doctor!” Shortly after scanning in a glimpse and capturing the petty details in snapping their eyelids with blinks even examining them in a scrutiny after interacting to certain objects, their journey resumed to the unwelcoming laboratory with its superlative amalgamating reek of urine, human sweat, heavy medicaments, human flesh, gore and bleach swiftly and smoothly whiffled past their noses.

Notwithstanding how the British compatriot wasn’t very fond of Jude’s methods of punishment towards the lunatics, anyway what it assembled them and forming a coalition was their sheer skepticism about Doctor Arden after acknowledging an accident, befalling one of the patients who was strapped on Dr. Arden’s patient bed and the barbarous experiments and binding his physical freedom with railing the dynamic roller coaster of sore pain, agony and the real notion of torture even disquieting him, Frank urgently informed his beloved boss about the prequel of the patient’s torture an hour ago, although his subtle journey inside Arthur’s office and laboratory, while he’s checking on the patients in the common room and conversating his favorite innocent woman of the cloth Sister Mary Eunice.

“I’d like to know what on world brings you there instead of excusing yourselves and investigate every petty detail that I possess.” The harshness in his northern lilt of the senior doctor emphasized his true nature of mild irritation, his mammoth, stiff and unnaturally pallid hands shoved in his smart slacks’ pockets, entering in his lab even barely wrenching widening his ocean blue orbs at the sight of his foe aiming to the repository territory and swinging opened the door after turning the door handle, the vista of a handful of doors converging her caramel brown cabochons, glinting skepticism and contempt whilst maneuvering her clammy-coated-clad fingers dexterously to fix her wool, conservative wimple, dithering which door to open in first place. In the meanwhile, the younger man was surveying in a perusal the lab location with his smoky quartz cabochons, his heart rate increasing rabidly rapid due to his sharp intuition of something spontaneous befalling him or at least betiding to encounter and looking into the face of evil.

The lacing elasticity of the silence, stretching the adults in a deformed triangle and summoning hushing shadows and demons to chase them even hatch their demons altruistically, infernally to not keep them calm at all at the moment. The haphazardness of the lunatic’s morose croak, excoriating his throat dumbfounded the holy woman throbbing alarming dispirited tones into her ears drew her attention in no time and reaching her trembling hand to the door handle of the one of the doors, subsequently her gape landed on the armless mutilated body of a patient, visually in the beginning of his forties with light-heavy wrinkles uncommonly accenting his scabby, still beauteous facial attributes, vibrantly contrasting the luxurious cluster of emotions which were welling into his blanched silver-mottled-lapis lazuli-clad irises, gawking jadedly, dispiritedly at Judy. Further, his shabbily slovenly auburn unruly, discolored in lacking gloss strands framed his round, full profile with its length peaking to his neck and his skin tone was unhealthily pallid, far from the natural, healthily silken pale. He stood 5’11 beside the petite-frame of the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer with her humble 5’5 for an average lady. Last but not least, his body structure was crucially leaning to ungracefully skinny physique, modicum beginnings of bulging bones beneath his tiresome patient outfit. His name was Joshua Sam Plympton. The genuine reason why he’s committed to the ill-famed madhouse was his fanatic and feeble obsession with underaged ladies and women without their consent even being charged of sexually harassing and sedating them even murdering them by turning them in horrifying sex dolls for his own carnal pleasures.

“Help me, Sister!” Suddenly Judy shafted her smoky quartz embers in stark perturbation and overwhelmness at the disturbing prospect of the mutilated inmate, his weakened in the knee caps areas legs and manipulating them to move them in the severe, sore pain after his tremendous writhes while being fettering his wrists, throat and ankles, lurching stubbornly and awkwardly, almost losing his balance due to his armless body. “This doctor is a sociopathic sadist!” Then her mouth opened in an unbelievably wide O, indicating her naked mortification, availably readable across her blanched facial attributes, a bittersweet lump seething up in her feminine Adam’s apple, ballooning until she ushered her throat muscles to swig it momentarily, gesturing with a hand her love interest to follow her.

“He mutilated ya by chopping your arms from yar torso?” Meanwhile, the auburn-haired gentleman managed to bob his head in solemn agreement, whereas zipping his chapped, pallid-pinkish lips in a desperate purse.

“Sister, what’s going on?”

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Several Hours Later or So_ \---

\--- _29th of October, 1964_ \---

Within the elapsing hours after taking a shower, catnapping in the afternoon hours, phoning your friends to arrange a Halloween house party in the German-Canadian compatriot’s two-story mansion which was privately owned by her immensely wealthy family, besides having a healthily mouth-watering dinner meal to compensate the low-quality, scant meals twice daily which you had in the madhouse, you could hardly blink your eyelids for a split second to collect modicum of rest throughout the nocturnal episode.

Sitting by yourself in the partly ebony living room on the conveniently leather sofa, transfixing your {E/C} bijous on the plugged radio in the plug to reproduce tunes, vibrating its gear technology, while you’re donned in nothing else than a large-sized T-shirt with beauteously embroidered black polka dots, texturing and matching peachily with the mint green cotton fabric’s attire, pairing it with black comfy panties, securing your pubic area warmly with dab of swaddle, gently grazing your hips.

You couldn’t get out of your mind yet the ambitious Monsignor and his benevolence what galore of wonders he bewitched you with in the period of a handful of days through your chaotic journey in the ill-famed mental hospital for criminally insane. Furthermore, you glanced at the single midnight black rose which was motionlessly swaddled in its indigo floral vessel in the middle of the kitchen table, overspreading its pleasant vibes your overall household. Notwithstanding how small was your apartment for a few people solely like a happily married couple with whether one or two children, your household was rooming a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, a corridor, a bathroom and two sufficiently extensive balconies, linking with your bedroom and living room in tandem-clad shaped.

“_The doctor of science of Briarcliff, Doctor Arthur Arden has been arrested a couple of hours ago as a sequence of Sister Jude and Monsignor Howard finding an armless patient, being victim of his inhumane experiments such as mutilation._” Once the radio journalist nonchalantly, professionally touched the spotlight on the radio news announcement in three o’clock in the morning, all of a sudden you snapped widened in panic your {E/C} embers, blazing vibrantly with glossy inquisitiveness and bewilderment though you’ve seen even encountered the doctor of science of the asylum like once or twice even striking you with his enigmatic, calm and sassy nature even though he didn’t seem to be a good person at all, in your humble opinion. You stifled a mere, idle yawn after managing to lug your hand over your mouth, narrowing your glassy, jadedly red-rimmed gawk at the retro radio. “_What it emanated of the unspeakable horror of Briarcliff was one of the security guards has found the mutilated patient in the doctor’s laboratory. Furthermore, he discovers the victim of the inhumane experiments just an hour before the members of the church started their persistent investigation in Dr. Arden’s office and lab._” Despite your inward victorious smugness of Jude and Timothy’s final decision to inform the authorities about the leery former Nazi war criminal and his recent prey of his experiments, the name of the aspiring Monsignor still lingered in your eardrums, sinfully sweetly chanting melodious tunes after it frostily stuck on your tongue tip, your fingertips uneasily, inanely drummed against the oak wood table on your right side.

The insomnia was swaddling you frostily in its own suffocating embrace, scarcely arranging your release from your vortex of thoughts, buried in the underworld’s infernal outskirts with its demons and shadows, cloaking your physical and mental agony with balkily staying awake as much as possible. You still can’t dump your thoughts and most of all recollected memories of the only priest who dared to take a good care of you even grant you a farewell present for your compassionate and diplomatic personality after dedicating sufficient amount of his trust to you after your interacts throughout the advancing hours.

Suddenly a rap on the door snapped you out of your idle condition, shaking your head as your iron-willed silken strands bounced and jerked in the choir. Your heart rate increased significantly unnaturally at the unexpected uninvited guest, standing beside the front door of your flat and anticipating eagerly playing his own cards right.

The lowly droning radio yet chanted the radio news in the loneliest hours of the early morning, cusping with the late night. 


	12. The Silence of Devils

** ** ** **

** ** ** **

** **✟** ** _Expect anything from anyone;_

_the devil was once an angel._ ** **✟** **

\--- *********** \---  
\--- _2 Days Later _\---  
\--- _31st of October, 1964 _\---

Within the elapsing days which lurched at snail's pace, the more you spent sleepless starless nights even though you were back at work after your friends explained to your boss about your false imprisonment in the ill-famed mental hospital against your will. The quantity of sheer, natural caffeine's consumption, staining thickly your ivory enamel and greased grouts-clad coat swaddling hideously your teeth, affecting your health condition of muting the inner voices to wrench shut your eyelids for awhile like a half an hour or so were taking a toll on you.

The plum, cured bruises which once baptized hideously, brawnily your arms and legs were initiating to be blanched-clad smoothly grained after the adequate treatment, no longer resided hypodermically your flesh and perpetually ebbing off its unspeakable consequences of the bar fight.

The medley of the haunting shadows and demons of the lusciously insatiable kiss which you shared with the former sleazy nightclub singer, the delicate touches of the ambitious Monsignor grazing with his delicate fingertips and pads of his virginally strong fingers your flesh, the insomnia were numbing your intentions of collecting sufficient quantity of rest throughout the daily episodes. It has been three days since it was the last time when you've crawled emphatically to snap shut your eyes for a few hours or minutes at least. It has been a few days since you've seen whether Frederic, Dana or Barb even though you're about to behold them tonight on the house party over Dana's two-story mansion.

Whilst you're venturing to finish your shift up to the wee hours of the evening, the waitress's iris cotton apron embroidered your torso, indicating your current occupation and belong to the facility's staff, one of your co-workers warily carried a tray with freshly boiled lemon tea and a plate of lusciously insatiable slice of pumpkin cheesecake ventured unintentionally bumping into your figure, flinching in tandem waltz as he dropped unintentionally clumsy his tray with its shattered on cluster of marbled pieces plate and glassy segments, maliciously botching the lavishly silken indigo carpet.

“_Fools rush in where angels fear to tread__ and so I come to you, my love, my heart above my head. Though I see the danger there If there`s a chance for me, then I don`t care!_” Fools Rush In by Ricky Nelson was recently droning with sufficiently enhanced decibels as the vocalist’s eloquence in the song’s lyrics was entertainingly unknotting every surrounding’s nerves, in order to bring themselves on the dance floor with their discretely authentic dancing moves, generally improvised and enabling their muscles to deform even twirl in the dance, barely wrapping their minds around the binds and ghastly issues. Further, the other rational motive the music in the restaurant was fascinatingly entertaining and unsettling merrily every customer after a tough day at work or school was eavesdropping the delightful tunes of music, tugging vaguely prim smiles at their mouths and twirling and swirling the smiles motionlessly with jaws’ flexes instead of listening the appalling, merely common soundtrack of their coworkers or problematic acquaintances bugging them off with their own shenanigans and fiery complaints.

"I'm dearly sorry, {Y/N}! I didn't truly mean it." Your co-worker was approximately your age, standing 5'11 with gracefully slender body build and meager masculine muscles bulging and indicating his genuine masculine anatomy, pairing with his lusterly tanned skin tone with neck length halo ringlet of shaggy auburn strands, framing his oval, full profile. Furthermore, your colleague were partnering during your shifts and you were pretty getting along platonically even exchanging galore of punchline of the jokes and personal stories whether during your brief breaks or work time. Last but not least, his actual name was Raziel Billie Thomson and his background is partly Jewish, mixed with English and Walsh, factly, his grandparents are European emigrants unlike Raziel's parents who were actually Jewish.

"It's okay, Raziel!" Once you fumbled backward, fidgeting your trembling fingers to register propping your weight as your round knees brushed the carpeted flooring, earning ocean of bloodthirstily nosy eyes, transfixed on you. Meantime, the sole sounds which the tip of your tongue could conjugate flawlessly were clumsy grunts and gasps, vibration coursing through your throat. You sensed medley of pangs of conscience spearing your flimsy heart, thudding vehemently with its heart pulsations chanting resonantly, profoundly into your ears and opting to aid Raziel with the platter and the shattered muddy remnants. "Everything will be good. I will take care of that." The velvety promising Maryland lilt punctured your candidness in your promise

"It's rather my fault, {Y/N}! Our gooses are going to be cooked.”

Knowing personally the Jewish compatriot, he wasn’t the kind of extroverted guy you’d usually encounter especially circa your age and contemplating the fountain of self-esteem, oozing of insecurities and glistening in diversity of nuances. Raziel was rather the type of acquaintance even co-worker who wasn’t very fond of night shifts and they compulsively affected his humor even his work in general. Moreover, he’s always been amicable and gentlemanly open-minded towards everyone who didn’t disregard him at all even contemplated and judged his flaws.

There were a couple of times whether during the night shifts or even the daylight whenever you got one another’s backs peculiarly altruistic. Determining who will look after the rest of the business, whereas the other business partner was spontaneously cusping and there were times whenever you’re replacing delightfully Raziel if he craved to go out with his friends on a gig, watch a football match with them or just spend more time with his inner circle. It wasn’t a second nature to be commonly encountered in your daily life as waiters, nevertheless, there were just days where you would afford modicum of rest and subtracting your work time with a handful of hours at least, in order to accomplish the fewest tasks in your personal lives which you would scarcely find yourselves doing every day like certain spawns of the general population sticking to those habits which are perpetually developed and mustered to participate presentably in their daily schedules.

Notwithstanding the gigs, football matches and the spent time with inner circle in Raziel’s case, you were having your own life just like him and every one of a kind individual. For example, cutting off randomly a night shift’s bonus hours which were granted to you to roam around the restaurant’s outskirts ruthlessly restless, stomping each step to approach a couple of vainly whimsical and crudely lukewarm customers, you were having your own nights or afternoons when you were hanging out with your small group of only close friends whom you could always cry on their shoulder and rely on their effortless pieces of advices, besides fleeing to a random bar just to have a beverage and pearly cherish each moment of your youthful, fresh life, full of brilliant opportunities to alter anything for better or otherwise for worse. Full of felicity and wonderfully elating moments to share with your soulmate even cherish each elapsed moment together which you could covet to endure ethereally timeless as if the absolute reality was out of bounds and the supernaturality was engaging emphatically, aloofly with whether halting the time or at least decelerate its megawatts. Full of impending moments, scripted meaningfully and dumbfounding you even interpreting either as decent or disastrous, depending your philosophy and their humor’s effect.

“Don’t be so gullible about this mess, Raziel! I’ll try my best to clean it pearly well as possible how our boss would want.” Even though your tip to evade any conflicts with your boss and altruistically sacrificing yourself to save the Jewish compatriot from his salary’s descent and the increased chances of losing his own position, he’s otherwise dissenting from your tip momentarily, pangs of conscience was morbidly written all over his fresh, masculinely attractive facial features and frustrated, rueful frown flattening his lips, squinting up his amber brown cabochons at your straightened petite frame.

“Why thank you, {Y/N}?” In the meanwhile, the young man shook his head meekly, credulously at his own pangs, parlously aching his thoughts and plaguing his overall mind, thriving a vaguely benevolent, grateful smile due to your stark sacrifice which you would do for anybody you loved or at least liked platonically to prevent their unabating aftermaths of their fiascos and clumsiness. “But it’s pretty unnecessary. I don’t want you to get fired because of your sacrifice.”

“Even if I lost my position, therefore it could be for better.” The tip of your tongue rolled off wryly jubilant, somber chuckle, mischievously and warmly tickling the corners of your dehydrated mouth, throughout dashing to the women’s restroom to retrieve a broomstick, paired with shovel, hardly having any intentions of extending the discords which you and Raziel are having at the moment. “Come on, Raziel! Go do your own business while I’ll take care of this obnoxious mess.” Meanwhile, the young man retreated to the kitchen with the muddy platter, while you discarded the shovel on the carpeted flooring and manipulated in curling your delicate fingers around the wooden broomstick’s handle, subsequently the gilded-straw-clad brush brandishing the ocean of glassy residues and slice of pumpkin cheesecake’s glossy glaze until they submerged the shovel’s solid, flat surface.

“_Mm-mm-mm-mm__! Fools rush in where wise men never go! But wise men never fall in love, so how are they to know? When we met, I felt my life begin!_”

As soon as you mopped the residues of Raziel’s ineptness in nimbly stabilizing his own recently leaking tasks without dropping a platter unintentionally awkward, afterwards you retired to the women’s restroom to discard the broomstick and shovel and marching up to your imminent destination. The kitchen.

Once you stepped inside the kitchen and the sole company you divide among yourself was with the cook and a handful of waiters in the same position as yours. Having meager tasks, grievously overwhelming them and having no time to sort their vortex of thoughts which client to serve their ordered beverage or meal.

The radio news was lowly droning in the kitchen with its ultrasound waves colliding in the exquisitely isolative walls even though it’s slightly early to flee your workplace momentarily.

“_The infamous Briarcliff Manor just became an institution also for possessed by the devil inmates, struggling with the vile supernatural essence which was commonly encountered in Middle Ages and bewildering priests and nuns._” Sternness emotionless accent strongly punctured the radio journalist’s declaim while registering the urgent announcement jingled medley of nonchalance and unnatural enthusiasm into the paranormal even the spirit possession froze you on the right spot when you were propping on the counter after retrieving your partly full glass of lukewarm water, stilling your spidery fingers hitching the flimsy glass’s rim. “_A seventeen-year-old boy under the name Jed Potter was recently registered as a temporal patient for exorcism and cure, seeking the owners of the mental institution’s aid along with Dr. Thredson and Father Malachi. Jed parents’ complaints were amusingly obnoxious, witnessing the recently occurred horrors, altering their son’s behavior such as speaking in fiendish, deep voice and flaying the corpse of a pig in the barn._” In the meantime, your plumpish, naturally roseate lips mopped sluggishly, gingerly the rim of the glass once you were sipping of the refreshing liquid, consequently hydrating your organs and water’s quantity, deposited in your overall figure. Even though you weren’t a potentially ardent believer in the paranormal and supernatural power’s existence since they’ve ceased to be distanced from the absolute reality, abundance of questions were narrowly merging your entire vortex of thoughts, still wavering the accuracy in the announcement.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _An Hour Later or So_ \---

An hour after the young man who was severely charged in vile essence’s possession, commanding his body muscles and hurricane of thoughts of committing unspeakably heinous deeds against anyone’s expectancies especially for an individual on the cusp of a young adult and adolescent, the great deal of efforts insatiably infused in reciting in docile mumble prayers and performing any act of bashing the vile spirits from the vulnerable body, combating with its salvation and lurching on the cusp between the life and the death, Timothy and Oliver lingered their presences and toilsome efforts in the poorly furnished ward. The both men were garrisoning the both sides of the hospital bed.

Just a few minutes ago when Timothy advised his rare bird to supervise the young man and solely seek God’s word through the old, nefariously rusty door’s battered window the process of Jed’s passiveness until his bleated series of whimpers taunted the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer in no time and opted to daub with a plain, oyster-white cloth the trickling bloody rivulet downward his lower eyelids in paradoxally straight angles. Leading to his taunts and exposing her grim past within a handful of minutes which fantastically perplexed even obfuscated her, subsequently the pure lava of adrenaline, pulsating into her body with the boiling ire and her berserk stance maneuvered her to smack series of weak slaps across his face which wasn’t left unseen by the ambitious Monsignor and newly hired doctor.

"There's no more time for prayers, Monsignor." Professional definiteness emphasized boldly the newly hired doctor’s caution, thus struggling injecting the syringe into the patient's arm. "His heart can't handle it!"

"Help him! Help him now!"

"Help me sedate him!" The young doctor’s insistence docketed the older man’s command, whereas the other gentleman was binding Jed, aiding the newly hired doctor to inject the syringe into Jed's arm.

The light smashed in the cell, subsequently chaffed wryly the pairing to duck in protest, avoiding any physical damages, mapping any ounce of their flesh.

A small amount of froth seethed up in the young man's mouth, subsequently he manipulated the writhes resembling a vicious seizure.

The exhausted nun watched through the small iron door's window the exorcism process when Sister Mary Eunice snapped her out of her thoughts as she warned her urgently about one of the inmates' is in the cordiac arrest.

Instead of responding to the younger nun, she opened the cell's door as she noted, being convinced that Jed won't survive as he was experiencing a heart attack.

The both nuns witnessed the final seconds of the young man's life, while the Monsignor prayed. "May the lord who frees you from sin save you and grace you."

Meanwhile the young doctor gave the teenager's motionless body CRP.

As Jude and Mary Eunice transfixed their darkened orbs on the exorcism’s process, a haphazard gasp limped backward and forward into the teenager’s mouth, coursing through his tongue and plunking his average-frame. He collapsed back on the pillow as Oliver gave him CRP again, counting every beat as Timothy's prayers.

"He's dead."

The both owners of the mental hospital exchanged perkily swift glimpses. An abrupt creaking sound of falling wooden crucifix from the wall, sourced a click on the concrete floor. Meantime, the British aristocrat flumped heavily, haphazardly on the concerted floor as his frail skeleton landed on the cold stone floor at the sight of trio’s arcanely astounded gawks and their hearts skipping a beat due to the post-exorcism’s sequence, resumed in an unavoidably blowminding segment after Jed’s demise, succumbed in a heart attack.

"Father?" All of a sudden, the former sleazy nightclub singer’s honeyed, timid murmur rolled out of her tongue tip, scooting up to his love interest’s motionlessly flumped body.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Half an Hour Later or So_ \---

An hour or so which was elapsing at light speed’s pace and bristling every ticking second, calculated in every background noise, every laughter, every pitching voice in the guests’ room in Dana’s mansion where you held a Halloween party, dolled up in spooky costumes which were enticingly pleasant vista for every stranger ironically metaphoric, your high spirits were lingering and obscenely corrupting every ounce of yours. Your vocal stings could scarcely collect the necessary rest after series of emitted variety of syllables and vowels even laughters’ soundtracks, composed in detached symphonies and matching with particular themes.

For your own surprise after finishing your night shift, Barb was already dolled up as a pirate, incarnating the sarcastic scruffiness in her outfit after infusing her efforts in looking decently appealing. Furthermore, your decision in disguising yourself as an angel of the death wasn’t peculiarly disappointing at all unlike Dana and Frederic being aliens.

The advancing time was exhausted in drinking beverages, eating sweets and snacks even spilling opulently goofy shenanigans on the dining table while the hums of the radio were attempting to amalgamate with the Halloween atmosphere in the guests’ room.

“Come on, Barb! Pass the tequila!” The blonde gentleman’s stubborn obstinacy to earn the bottle of Mexican’s liquor while seating alongside you, maintaining a meager intimate proximity which was adequately proper for both of you, while Barb and Dana were lost beyond in their misty colloquy, hardly darting their pairs of irises to either of you. “Barb!” In the interim, the only thing which you’re granted with a sheer chance was nudging the Mexican compatriot and attracting her attention in no time with unblemished physical contact that wasn’t worth any efforts at all.

“Hey girls! I’m really sorry if I’m interrupting you, Barb and Dana,” The stutter, reproduced in a pensive gearing system of syllables and vowels, recently pieced together as puzzle fragments and shaping the complete prospect, you ushered your spidery delicate fingers to poke smoothly the older lady’s shoulder blade.

“It’s okay, {Y/N}! No need to apologize!” The German-Canadian ventured to offer a sympathetic smile, creamily inked on your face while the Mexican compatriot shifted her attention to Frederic.

“Pardon me for not hearing you well, Frederic,” Once it was high time the dark-haired lady’s turn to convey her utterance, meanwhile, the young man ushered with a mammoth, marbled hand to gesture her to stifle her agitation.

“It’s alright, Barb! I just wanted you to pass the tequila over there if you aren’t planning to pour in your glass anymore.”

“Just a few hours ago after Jed’s failed exorcism, leading to his heart attack at age seventeen only, Monsignor Timothy Howard fainted just seconds after the adolescent’s death until his transportation to his helpless condition was managed to the infirmary.” When the late night’s radio news begun with the breaking news about the aspiring Monsignor’s faint just shortly after his failed attempts to rescue the once taintless adolescent’s essence and bash the vile spirits, the bitter vibes which the breaking news oozed of and being all ears to acknowledge the clergyman’s recent condition suddenly stung your {E/C} cabochons widened in immense shock, parting your mouth in a soft O until your unpredictable faint befell you with your petite-frame plumped backward on your Victorian style oak wood chair, plummeting your physical stamina’s stability to linger your balance, hardly composing any gasp or further noise. The last night you beheld before your senseless condition was your old friends, thereafter your vision patched in entire ebony blanket.

“Y/N?”

**Author's Note: I'd like to thank everybody for taking their time to read even vote and leave a kind feedback on each chapter that has intrigued even struck them! I genuinely appreciate it! Don't forget to leave a feedback! I'd genuinely appreciate to read your thoughts! :))**


	13. Tough Night

**✝** _ But without the dark,_

_we'd never see_

_ the stars._ **✝**

\--- ***** **\---

Shortly after the exorcism which could be rather interpreted as gruesome, naked fiasco, smoothly gliding through the sequence of the young man's demise due to an abrupt heart attack and the pious clergyman's faint and his direct transportation to the infirmary, the sole visitors which he earned through his senseless condition were Sister Mary Eunice and Sister Jude.

The progression of the nocturnal's daily episode was more obvious in the agitatedly inwardly ticking indication of the time, Sister Mary Eunice ventured to flee the infirmary within a quarter an hour later unlike her mentor.

The exceeding compassionate sides of the both pious women of the cloth haphazardly engulfed their time to supervise and yet disappointment inking their facial attributes roughly, factly, Timothy hasn't even moved a single muscle, nor his tongue forging opulent noises.

Little did the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer know what awaited her in every elapsing moment. What she was fearing of was losing one of the most outstandingly dearest person whom she shared a pearly close relationship even developing intensifying romantic feelings for him coalescing with impure thoughts, populating her stormy tempest of thoughts which was an exquisitely abstract sanctuary, incessantly functioning and gearing each thought which she was swimming through.

The Bostonian has almost no one whom she could dedicate her uniquely celestial trust which was solely remarkable and meant pearly to the closest people of her inner circle, shrunk to minimalistic scale such as Frank, Mother Claudia, Sister Mary Eunice and Timothy.

If one of her compact inner circle plummets with one more significantly precious person especially the love of her life, on the contrary the Bostonian would scarcely imagine the fresh death of her one of a kind friend even love interest to be suffocated by the insurmountable demise, succumbed in sore pain and agony.

The former sleazy nightclub singer was seating comfortably on the edge of the hospital bed, her fidgety, elvish hands viciously tugging in claws her conservatively rigid, dark wool habit's hem, attempting to compose her own seating posture, suffocated in disquietude.

"Mmm!" Humming the soft, velvety tunes in an indiscernible, quiet groan, dripping from the British compatriot's lusciously dry mouth caught off guard the older lady. Her heart leaped and skipped a beat in a dancing tandem. In the interval, his brittle eyelids blinked frequently in a humdrum choir until they registered wrenched widely opened, fixated on the vulnerability, roughly graining the former licentious nightclub singer's facial attributes. A vaguely prim, kind-hearted smile flashed sheepishly, boyishly upon his naturally nude pink, plumpish lips.

"My goodness! M-Monsignor," Elaborating the pattern of naked merriness and headstrong relief willingly jointed her breathy gasp once constricting her chest, grappling even mercilessly, ominously rougher her rigidly dark wool's habit hem, narrowing her pools of abysmally photogenic caramel brown at his youthfully fresh, parchment complexion. "T-Timothy, yar awake finally! It's a relief to see you still alive and staying strong!" The candidly emboldening caution, composed in a sheepish stutter rolled out of her strawberry-coloured, wet tongue promptly, faintly pitching the background in the desolated infirmary, where their very presences were prominently occupying the outskirts.

"Rare bird," After a resiliently brilliant doldrum suffocating the both pious members of the church in a small bubble of their formulated own miniature world, the British aristocrat’s timid, hoarse timbre hardly synchronized rhythmically with the syllables and vowels almost dying on his tongue tip, whilst addressing with the extraordinarily friendly nickname and spurting out of his tongue tip forcefully, his pools of mistily abysmal coffee brown alight by her presence.

“It’s not yar fault at all. Ya had an accident.”

“W-What an accident?” The misty memories from the exorcism of the possessed teenager fogged the duo’s hurricane of thoughts frequently and rendering the British aristocrat questioning the abrupt location’s change in his case. The last thing Timothy could ever recall was accompanying the newly hired Dr. Thredson, Sister Jude and Sister Mary Eunice in the bleakly poor furnished ward whilst struggling to bash the demon out of his Jed’s frail skeleton with prayers and tranquilization. The explicitly graphic recollected memories from the heinous exorcism still immersed his gearing cells and almost blanching, enervating perpetually, overthinking and reconsidering how in the final moments of Jed’s life the vile essence dwelled out of his body and momentarily foreshadowed the sequence of the devotional clergyman’s faint. Fortunately, he wasn’t alone at all and the witnesses could confirm such explicit information, illustrating realistically, evocatively every fragment and every detail behind the gloomy spiritual possession’s utter abolishment. “I remember so far he passed away from heart attack, if I’m not wrong.”

“You aren’t wrong, but ya fainted,” Suddenly the younger man’s breathing hitched and violently contracting his lungs until a refreshing, arcane groan jettisoned his brittle lungs, inhaling inwardly, furtively the pungent scent of heavy medicaments, human perspiration, human flesh and orthodoxly clean bed sheets. “I’m deadly worried about you, Timothy!” One of her elvish, creamily trembling hands manifested to reach for his well-carved, chubby cheek, consequently cupping it in the palm of her amusingly, soothingly warm hand, lowly droning a silver-tongued, tuneful hum under her breath, solely discernible for the pairing.

What it tore the former licentious nightclub singer’s heart was how small, weak and vulnerable appeared to be the aspiring Monsignor especially after the ominously grueling exorcism of the young boy with the gliding sequence of a villainous blackout, swaddling frostily his muscles and bones even his consciousness, spellbinding him in a temporal slumber.

How a mere exorcism of a young man who was about to enter in the adulthood could pass away from a heart attack and thereafter the vile essence dwelling out of his figure shortly after his demise with crawling perkily into the revered ambitious Monsignor? How a conjuration could lead even a member of the clergy to have his utter figure violently commanded by a demon? The demons were commonly encountered in the Middle Ages even earlier when everything was just chaotically developing the world and the methods in general.

“Ya aren’t alone at all. Ya deserve to rest instead of exhausting yarself with such fatiguing responsibilities as much as we have.” Her swan thumb traced gingerly, featherly soft his well-sculptured cheekbone, admiring his ethereally stunning facial features as his facial expression snapped with unwavering concern and disquietude when the responsibilities and tasks were ongoing and his absence was critically compulsory.

Moreover, the man of the cloth could scarcely imagine anybody else being in charge of and replacing him during his severe recovery from the events, situated in the ward where the once spiritually possessed young man was exceedingly clashing mentally and physically even with the vehement aid of professionals, encircling him.

For his own relief, the thought of the fewest people that are genuinely, candidly caring about him and his condition in general were his last, vibrant hope nonetheless. Sister Jude, Sister Mary Eunice and you were the top people that could be even barely counted on a single hand’s fingers and indicating your genuine care or at least altruistic sympathy you’ve for Timothy. His three of a kind or rather Holy Trinity were the only ones who encircled warmly, glowingly with your very presences or at least sheer optimism his hallowed spirit and could grace him with high-spirited hopes of quicker recover from the woeful conjuration.

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _A Few Hours Later or So_ \---

The woeful Halloween party that you held in Dana’s home slithered apocalyptically to your faint shortly after acknowledging the breaking radio news about the aspiring Monsignor’s recent health condition and his faint when the infernally possessed young boy passed away from a heart attack after strong-willedly, bloodthirstily clashing with the demons physically and mentally under the strong influence of syringe, divinely sacred prayers, your friends conveyed you stealthily to the guests’ room double bed after your incident and your senseless condition yet stifling your muscles and bones.

In first place Dana and Barb were pensively leaning to believe that you’re allergic or at least having issues with drinking liquor unlike Frederic though who emerged to be slightly logical even overcome with speculations behind your blackout. Although your close group of buddies deeply know who’s Timothy Howard and his altruistically humanitarian treatment towards you, compared to the rest of the madhouse when you were falsely imprisoned against your will, Frederic was the sole friend of yours who was potently, categorically thinking that you’re somehow head over heels in love with nobody else than a holy man and just after the breaking news’ announcement about Timothy’s blackout and Jed’s death even though at first the German-Canadian and Mexican compatriots were finely disagreeing with him on his rationally peculiar symptom of your insensibility.

When you came to your senses lastly with wrenching widely opened your {E/C} minerals to glimpse at every corner of the recent room which you were occupying with your very desolated presence, thick ebony mantle was clouding your vision, in spite of your doubts. Your cherub, chapped lips quivered under the antagonizing common chilly climate permeating in the expansive jet-black coated room until the sole vowels and syllables which awkwardly lurched on your tongue tip were impulsively expressive, scarcely brightening with your one of a kind, outstanding rationality and logic. Nonplus and uncertainness of your thoughts were crucially contaminating your numbness, shaking timidly, featherly soft your head to regenerate the cells and their youthful energy again.

All of a sudden, dim bright yellow gleam emanated from the bashfully opened door’s gap as the older man peered, lowly humming absent-mindedly an elating tune, solely discernible for himself and his jade green gemstones vibrantly, kindheartedly alight by your current condition of dwelling out of your reverie’s realm. A weak, benevolently mischievous smile permeated across his chapped, plumpish lips, wearing thousand patterns of childlike, naked optimism.

“{Y/N}, you’re awake!” Huskiness passionately, prominently tugged his stutter, insecurely examining in a scrutiny the last hope of light that was gleaming in illumination your petite-frame. His pristinely masculine, stubborn fingers were dancing and bracing the askew opened guests’ room door.

“Mhm!” Bobbing your head in solemn agreement urgently ushered him to step inside the expansive room by shutting the door behind him, in order to prevent any further, unwelcoming hostile figures to disturb your recently paired platonic duo.

“That’s good, {Y/N}! I, Barb and Dana,” After his fingers idly danced on the light switcher and manifested to saturating illuminate every outskirt of the guests’ room, the light bulb erupted a saturating golden light, depicting your two of a kind illustrations with golden brush, painting you from head to toes. “You know, how much we were deadly concerned about your faint while the breaking radio news was ongoing.”

“I-It’s true, Frederic! I think I drank a bit too much or I had a food poisoning.” Clearing softly your throat with a mere, coldblooded cough vibrated your throat, whereas the older man approached and subsequently participated in your amicable company, suffocating the loneliness with his delightfully comforting presence. “Or perhaps, I don’t know what on earth is going on with me, but,”

“But what, dear?” In the interval, his mammoth, flabbergastingly warm, reassuring hand reached for your petite, parchment hand and throughout jointing it in a reassuringly kindhearted grasp, lowering the megawatt decibels of his husky voice, puncturing his fatalistic concerns about you and your condition in general.

“But it happens to almost every one of us.” Even when you could scarcely formulate a rational response, nevertheless, anything that impulsively, fiercely pronged your hurricane of thoughts was subsequently composed and expelled from your mouth.

“It doesn’t happen like that to faint while sitting on a table with your friends and the radio news are announcing about the person whose name imprinted in your head like tattoo.”

“I-I don’t know,” The vibrantly soothing warmness, thickly spurting your petite-frame due to its emanation of its grasp, reconsidering your curtly slurs, you slammed your front ivory, firm teeth to nibble reccuringly the raw spot of your lower plump lip.

“How you don’t know, {Y/N}? I know how much do you give a damn about a priest that you won’t see ever again,” The haphazardness of your friend’s pauses were subtly sedating your cells even diminishing the chances of freshly reproducing another logical retaliation, limping in your throat and quirking your eyebrow with great deal of bewilderment. Unhealthily pale pigment blanched instantly your vulnerable flesh and electrifyingly silken goosebumps overally pricking your epidermis. “But that faint is quite weird. You can’t just pass out after hearing on the news about a person that you don’t know even his damn past.”

“Frederic, you don’t understand how much did cost him to grant me the freedom from that insane asylum where he was the only one that considered me perfectly sane.”

**Author's Note: I'd like to apologize for the delaying updates, besides this sloppy chapter, I opted to take a break from this book for a while and subsequently overcome with freshly new, creative ideas how to resume this book especially for Timothy's enthusiasts. I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter as well! :))**


	14. Morning Aftermaths


      **✝**
      _ Demons in my head_
    
    
    
      _Demons everywhere _
      **✝   
      
      
    **
    

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _The Next Morning _\---  
\---_1st_ _of November_, _1964_ \---

Within the progressing daily episodes with its photogenic transformation from night to daylight, your condition was fully restored to its default.

The early morning was fluently embraced by the partly opened curtains in the guests' room grandiose window with its divinely golden sun light showering the expanse of the room, beautifully saturating with its golden paint the exquisite furnitures and your youthfully fresh, parchment complexion and ruffled mop of greasy strands curtaining the cotton pillow.

Furthermore, the absence of alarm exquisitely setting its clock on the right nightstand didn't disturb you at all. Sheerly unblemished doldrum suffocated the sufficiently expansive room.

As soon as you entirely embraced the wee hours of the morning with the elating eloquent birdsongs, ghosting the atmosphere along with coming to your senses eventually by stretching your arms leisurely and subsequently discreetly fashioning into balled fists your petite, veiny hands, in order to daub your groggy, round cabochons for a split second until a foul-stained yawn pitched your oral caverns with parting your chapped, lusciously cherub lips in a soft O. Muffling the yawn, your cabochons wrenched widely opened to glimpse at every corner in studious, nevertheless, perkily quick scrutiny the corners of the room as you discovered eventually you were all alone, but the happily translucent of freshly brewed morning coffee with its sweltering porcelain mug surrounding the left part of your nightstand.

The scrumptiously delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted widely past your tiny, flexible nostrils like unbearably thick fog, climbing above the horizon and submerging bleakly the city.

The sole discernible background noises were the frequency of your friends' chatters along with the silver-tongued, beatific birdsongs.

Your petite-frame was utterly relaxed and no longer submerged coldly into sore pain or at least vulnerable to any detrimentally gruesome fragment, imperilling your condition which has recently recovered from the last night events.

The oblivion of its memorable blackout and its aftermaths, dating from the night before were vaguely misting.

After adjusting your posture in seating and scanning promptly the recent time with its glowing digits, indicating "7:30am" in the morning, pure panic misted your nonchalance as you retrieved by grappling the handle of the mug with refreshingly steamy caffeine liquid to gulp in tiny, guiltless sips and searing your berry-coloured, dehydrated tongue.

Your work day is supposed to commence within an hour and you haven't even had your morning coffee yet along with smartening your looks. It was contagiously concerning you would lost your position which was dearly treasured by you and there were the fewest cases when you postponed with your diligence to be right on time to confront categorically galore of whimsical customers who would assume you haven’t served them the exactly ordered beverage or meal.

All of a sudden, the door notoriously creaked opened, registering its imminent and only visitor to participate in your company as it door shut down within a couple of seconds after the redhead’s comforting presence ghosted yours.

“Good morning, sunshine!” The featherly soft, doting timbre of her utterance, pairing it with the friendly nickname alight your {E/C} minerals, blazing pure benevolence to shoot a gaze at her as your brittle, spidery fingers were dancing around the mug’s handle. In the meanwhile, a weak, reassuringly sympathetic smile tugged at the corners of your coffee-stained mouth after sipping for very first time and consequently dumping disappointedly the mug on the nightstand, no longer obtaining freely its heat battering the pads of your fingers and palm. Dana maneuvered her rear to perch on the edge of the double bed and returning you the sympathetically glowing smile, tattooed on her parchment, youthful complexion.

“Good morning, Dana!”

“If you’re questioning who made the coffee, I did it.” After the persistent clash of vowels and syllables to adequately formulate the imminent utterance of Dana, subsequently her tongue conjugated it and pawed boldly with her long, slim palish fingers her chest for a split second, in order to usher you she was the one who brewed the coffee for you and definitely served it on the nightstand. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes and,” A pause, dumping on a cliffhanger muted your cherub lips, opting to sort your mind and not to raise a topic that would be worth consolations or vehement yells. “I was thinking could you drop me to work after the morning coffee and taking a fresh shower if you don’t mind?” It’s been a couple of times when you’ve stayed in your friends’ homes and used their showers with their actual consent even you’ve done anything for each other as well. In spite of you weren’t fully awake and refreshed even after a promisingly wee, delightful sip of the coffee, nevertheless, the hoarseness in your stammers were inexorable, sailing sluggishly without thinking twice how to reconstruct them even better or at least having more logic.

“Sure, why not? Why are you even asking, {Y/N}?”

“Because within less than an hour I’ll be late and my goose will be cooked, you know, sweetie!” The fewest times whenever amorously kindhearted nicknames for your friends were pretty usable were in private conversations even stark comforts as the German-Canadian compatriot yanked confidently one of your elvish, creamily silken hand into hers, phasing with its smoothness and a swan thumb kneading your brittle highlands of knuckles. Balmy, kind warmness heated the pit of your stomach.

“Of course! You know anything you want me to do as a favor is my command.” Stilling the swan thumb massaging your frail knuckles, providing myriad of sweet, heartwarming comfort, warmness and love, the older lady’s breathing hitched with clearing gruffily, cozily her throat after manifesting its creamy cough. “And within less than an hour, I’ll be also aiming to work with Frederic and Barb. So you don’t have to go purple about it, honey.”

“I’m not angry or anything, it’s upsetting sometimes as if it feels like the time flies way too quickly than your expectancies.”

“I’ve to finely agree with you, but,” At the moment, ushering your solely free hand to claw firmly, buoyantly the ginger’s hand, consequently a soar lump seethed your feminine Adam’s apple and flexing your throat muscles to swig it immediately, fixating your {E/C} minerals on her scintillatingly illuminated with its sunny veil facial attributes, maintaining yet its appropriate eye contact. “But in first place, drink your coffee and take a shower! Your concerns should be dead by then.” Managing to bob your head in a solemn, meek agreement, you strongly affirmed her words and optimistically looking forward for today and wondering yet what kind of adventurous and intriguing experience on your workplace would you confront.

What it profoundly questioned you either fortunately or unfortunately for your sake, depending how you would view its perspective was that your friend didn’t tackle with great deal of efforts to raise the topic about the aspiring Monsignor as much as Frederic did the night before especially shortly after your paradoxal blackout. Although the ginger was just like your other friends potently reckoning the honesty as the key, intoxicatingly altruistic pairing you as platonic bond, the older lady didn’t prefer to mischievously taunt you with heated debates about Timothy and how within a couple of direct interactions with him even earning his divine, intoxicating kindness and calmness you would find yourself having butterflies in your stomach with a man of the cloth that deeply cared about you.

Different perspectives. Different worldviews. Different people. Different theories about the phenomenally amorous phenomenon of falling in love with somebody significant or at least you’d deem unique were immersing its crudely cold, howsoever, monstrously enormous and abstract world.

The actions and words were sheer opposition and extraordinarily speaking volumes behind every one of a kind either protagonist or an antagonist on this world. Certain people were leaning to believe the gestures and actions of the targeted person would speak volumes if either they’re genuinely cared about you or on the contrary, they’re just counting on their mastered manipulative intentions, ominously pitching their inner voices and solely distinctive for themselves.

Each action, extraordinarily introduced every character’s intentions and their true nature unlike the words which were usually granting broken promises like a silver barren rain of flimsy petals, showering its pure incarnation of its melancholy, false hopes and pretty, little lies. 

\--- ******* \---

\--- _The Following Morning _\---

As soon as the devotional man of the cloth’s recovery from his senseless condition and the devil’s temporal rest shortly after finding a new home in his impending victim’s vulnerable frail skeleton, Timothy paid a visit to Jude’s office to soothingly assure her about his recent condition and recently fresh recovery from the blackout. Even though the Bostonian was starkly relieved the love of her life was fully recovered from its sore pain and numbness, nevertheless, the eccentric behavior’s hints were inexorably leaked in its vista.

Interpreting the eccentric behavior and drastic changes in the British aristocrat were eventually the tangy, devilish fragrance of his masculine cologne, battering his delicate neck, neatly trimmed chestnut hair and fragile wrists which were far cry from necessary alters in his physique and primping himself, in fact, he’s a clergyman and the cosmetics along with colognes were solemnly futile except the casual activities of combing his hair, lingering its neat elegance and shaving his stubble per a couple of days. Furthermore, the former licentious nightclub singer commenced questioning Timothy’s demeanor and his intentions, despite she evaded heated debates with him, in order to not earn her abolishment from her own position for her childlike, unnatural inquisitiveness which was unwelcomingly imperiling her career and vows in general.

When the British aristocrat fulfilled partly his daily schedule with paying a visit to his rare bird’s office, throughout the dynamically progressing daily episode he fled the ill-famed, grandiose madhouse’s façade and venturing into other sacred sites where his presence was obligatory at any cost.

Precisely arriving in the nigh Boston church and participating in the company of sea of nuns and priests, thereafter the British compatriot was cocksurely partaking two younger clergymen’ group and formulating an adequate, professional debates and organizing slyly the forthcoming days of the church such as volunteers and their role, playing out in its charities and events.

The first holy man was actually in the beginning of his thirties or rather with a few years Timothy’s junior, standing mildly taller than him with a handful of inches. His large-frame’s body structure was slightly roundish, despite his fashionable elegance in the austere dress code of the clergy. His dirty blonde locks interestingly capped his head and framed his round, full profile with its bronze tan, highlighting exquisitely his dark eyebrows, short mop of dirty blonde silken locks along with his gracious nose. His brutally honest, straightforwardly spearing with its magnetism azure blue gems discreetly imbibed with a simple stare every listener’s little secrets. Last but not least, the clergyman was serving for a handful of years in the church diligently, triumphantly its ecclesiastical duties. His name was Father Morgan Casey Walker.

“I was thinking about this event which may take its place in a few days in the church with its volunteers and the games which everybody are free to participate,” Father James’s eloquence in delivering his creative concepts behind almost every church’s events and games were jingling angelic anthems into the male duo which was all ears momentarily. Moistening greedily his upper and lower lusciously thin, chapped lips after maneuvering his berry-coloured, wet tongue to drench with its saliva the raw spots of James’s lips, meanwhile, Morgan’s pristinely meaty, creamy fingers knotted delicately, landing his transfixed azure blue gemstones on the redhead, whereas the British aristocrat manipulated the flattening process of his insatiably plumpish, naturally nude pink lips into a bashful, attentive purse. “And every visitor who arrives on its event on Tuesday receives special rewards but there is going to be more,” The huskiness of his pause stunned Timothy and Morgan, whereas swapping supernaturally skeptical glances with one another as if modicum of wighty doubts suffocated the trio abruptly. “What do you suggest, Father Howard and Father Walker?”

“I’m thinking that there is going to be a special bonus for the poor or rather the single parents of their children.” The sheer optimism, welling in its silver-tongued, melodious blond’s undertones stormily submerged with heat the pits of the other gentlemen’s stomachs, whilst the aspiring Monsignor’s fingers lifted up to graze shyly his pristine collar and subsequently idly, comfortably promisingly fix it with gearing up its touch.

“And Timothy, what are your thoughts? Do you have other suggestions?”

“I guess I’m strongly agreeing with Father Morgan and I think the brilliance in his ideas to reward every visitor within two days with their visit is actually a great opportunity to help the others even entertain them with its promising event and games.”

“I thought you would have other ideas or at least, wee suggestions to develop that event and the games,” Somewhat skepticism, incredulity roughly, arrogantly grained the redhead’s facial attributes, while quirking quizzically, amusingly a thick, dark eyebrow. “You’re incredibly smart, Father Timothy! But,”

“But what Father James?”

“It quite surprised me you instantly agreed with Father Morgan’s suggestion what to grant to the poor and single parents’ visitors on Tuesday.”

“I just didn’t think of anything else, you know!” Shrugging sheepishly boyish his broad, muscly shoulders and bittersweet lump bubbling up his Adam’s apple, thus the older man flexed gingerly his throat muscles to swig violently the lump and clearing his throat gruffily with an awkward cough shortly before depicting the sequel of his one of a kind, outstanding monologue. In the interim, James and Morgan’s incredulity swaddled them icily and shifting their attention to the director of the infamous mental hospital, flattening their lips into an eerie flat line as if their optimism ceased to rebirth shortly after noting the recently leaked infernally hints of eccentric demeanor and significant change into him as well. “S-Sometimes you’ve to agree with the others positions, because they’re actually the best or at least might the better than nothing. Even agreeing than saying nothing is an answer.”

“So it’s finally decided that the poor and the single parents will receive more bonuses on Tuesday’s event, right?”

“Yes!”

When the British compatriot perpetually manipulated his ghosting footsteps up to the monumentally rich polished double door of God’s house to finish the rest of his daily hectic schedule, the prospect of the fleeing possessed holy man wasn’t dumped by James and Morgan, studiously surveying in a scrutiny his manners and physique, analyzing complexly, outstandingly his change which took its place in less than a day and swapping with one another series of criminally leery glimpses once again as if they’ve currently formulated a conversation with nobody else than the most wanted criminal without their knowledge.

The demon has just played his cards right and almost obscuring his very first intentions. The devil waltzed playfully, blissfully around its diabolically somber fire of the victory for doing his very quest with his current victim of spiritual possession.
    
    
      
    


	15. Man That You Fear


      **✟ **
      _You are a little soul_
    
    
    
      _Carrying around a corpse_
      ** ✟  
      
      
    **
    

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _Later that Day _\---

Within the advancing evolution of its daily anomaly from the heavenly vibrant daily light to the eerily peaceful night time and the peacefully comforting crickets' songs, eloquently pitching the background of the conveniently cozy two-story mansion, after finishing with visiting a couple of prominently hallowed sites and beholding his rare bird Timothy was desolated in his own two-story mansion's library.

Eventually the British compatriot's two-story house was exquisitely located in a desolated forest in Boston's outskirts which was far away from the ill-famed, old mental institution's real residence. It consisted a handful of sufficiently expansive, linked with certain rooms along with two bedrooms, a guest room, a kitchen, two bathrooms, a library, a living room, a cellar and a dining room. The breathtaking opulent of flowerbeds with its rich variety of abstract gardenias, marigolds, tulips, lilacs and lavenders embellished and restored its true esthetics and elegance of the privately owned in the woods property. In addition to the privately owned property, the walls constructing and extraordinarily isolating the natural warmness that guarded and swaddled the rooms were eventually brick.

Despite the seasonal anomaly per a handful of months which were pretty commonly characterised for the small city of Massachusetts, the priest sensed the genuine notion of serene isolation in the dark, profoundly comforting nights when his daily schedule was running out of chaotical engagements as well. On other hand, the isolation in his mansion was somewhat melancholically disquieting him and apt to question his current occupation and the majority of the adults approximately his age.

How peculiar is a mere man like Timothy Howard whose great deal of fantastic opportunities to clash with the rest of the representatives of the adult world were the responsibilities of being hired as an employee somewhere as a teacher or a librarian for example, besides via his professional circle or on the contrary his often outdoor lifestyle and encounter with abundance of different strangers arouse his interest to develop his life in general? Or for example, hanging out with the others during his leisure time?

Not at all, his somewhat profound regret for the inability to fulfill his celestial dreams of every one of a kind man like him due to his devotion to the cloth immersed his patchy flimsy heart.

But after meeting not only his rare bird Jude in St. Andrew's church and strong-willedly, ambitiously collaborating and sharing mutually their wise decisions on certain issues, but also you were playing a major role in the past days of his life shortly before your release, thanks to him. You and Jude were the only people or rather ladies that have altered with your extraordinarily meaningful presences haunting his memories and hurricane of thoughts even vibrantly stealthy consoling his very solitude.

What Timothy profoundly beheld into his right hand was a sheer, unconditional love for her and his divine ambition even somebody sharing similar concepts to develop their weapons for raising in the higher tiers of the celestial church and Rome, despite their age gap. Unlike the former licentious jazz nightclub singer, what truly the British aristocrat contemplated into you was the genuine notion of redemption and a great opportunity to flee the church for better life and ocean of adventurous experience as an individual adult to explore the world which was forbidden for him yet unless his final decision to consult with the Bishop and Father Malachi even headstrongly insist to say farewell to his clerical possessions.

Howsoever, what it was intriguingly uncommon for the British aristocrat’s library decoration was that a cherry wood bureau was battered to the exquisitely painted wall and trading a meager proximity with two tall, hardwood bookshelves.

In the meantime Timothy’s distraction was interpreted with a plain sheet of paper kipping motionlessly on the wooden material and a handful of docilely creamy fingertips supporting the light-heavy weight of the remarkable sheet of paper, whereas his other mammoth, ghostly pale hand was equipped with a fountain pen. He didn’t even have any idea why any kind of a pen would be associated with his distraction or at least a small hobby during his rarely found spare time. The blank submerged in its own naturally, default lily-white and the howling, aggressive wind slapped the shut windows and doors and elegantly, buoyantly dancing outside with the lavish, grandiose carpet of multicoloured leaves as they tandem altogether.

Although his spiritual possession by a vile essence, his obsession with you hasn’t even ceased to glassily tiny, flimsy fragments and weighing its much smaller scale to none. Overwhelming his hurricane of thoughts was interpreted even in his hand’s pristinely milky fingers to contour gingerly, artistically your figure and how he’s actually imagined you.

Within a few minutes of persistent contour of your physique, occupying partly the lily-white blank with its charcoal gray ink brightly glimmering past his smoky quartz big, roundish bijous, subsequently the ambitious Monsignor moistened his naturally baby-pinkish, plumpish lips after manipulating his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to twirl outside his oral caverns and sponge gingerly, soothingly his upper and lower lip.

“Y/N, you’re so pretty!” Lowering the decibels of his eloquent voice into a honeyed, husky mumble whispering into his sensitive ears, he pearly admired and cherished every discreet detail behind his artwork, in spite of the last time he’s drawn for distraction or at least as a hobby was a couple of years ago shortly after meeting the head nun of Briarcliff. Despite his lacking mastery in arts, anyway it was sweetly entertaining for fun to draw during his leisure time or his muse was potently, stubbornly commanding him.

All of a sudden, series of hideously furious door rings snapped him out of his reverie picturing your image how exactly it was illustrated on the paper and dwelling him out of the celestial reverie by ruthlessly tossing him back in the absolute reality.

When the devotional clergyman dumped his artwork on the partly illuminated bureau and stormed off the library and the recklessly rowdy drums of the footsteps, cascading the stairway for the very first floor as his heart was almost halting its vigorously merry thuds into his ribcage.

What is the possibility of the disturbed silence in the middle of the night to emanate? From the mailman or a prominently uninvited visitor? If it’s a prominently uninvited visitor, what were his intentions and what kind of business was chiming his very presence in the privately owned property?

Within less than a quarter a minute, the front door was fully unlocked with a single click and the very presence standing beside the tall figure was the Bostonian, due to her unnatural concerns about her boss.

A sheepishly beaming, charming smile embellished fashionably her still elderly youthful, porcelain complexion and highlighting beautifully her facial attributes with its relentlessly thick mantle of the nocturnal darkness, veiling her very porcelain façade. Yet, the blonde was donned up in her commonly daily outfit, obscuring the sinfully seductive, fleshy curves of her petite-frame beneath its conservatively dark wool fabric attires, in spite of the fistful of unruly, gilded curls curtaining eye-catchingly her façade.

“Good evening, my rare bird!” A coyly welcoming, heartwarming smile bloomed upon his baby-pinkish, lusciously cherub lips at the vista of his rara avis paying a visit to him in the middle of the night. The wind’s ferocious aggression howled yet and apt to tandem the garments’ waltz and gently, sympathetically tickle the exposed fleshes. Meantime, his mammoth, veiny hand oddly clawed the widely spread front door’s material and unnervingly drumming his fingertips resiliently quiet after darting his pools of abysmally expressive chocolate brown to the shorter figure.

“Good evening, Timothy! I didn’t mean to disturb ya at all.”

“No wonder why you aren’t in Briarcliff right now!” Austere wisdom punctured the sharpness of his rhetorical retaliation, mischievously raising an arch of his dark, masculinely thick eyebrow. “Are you actually worried or anything?” Even though the younger man’s goofy daredevil game was played quite peculiarly with posing a question, begging for the older woman’s immediate reply, he didn’t want to arouse ocean of hideous doubts into her.

“It’s not about me,” Fashioning into a balled weathered fist, she glimpsed at her classy jet-black, refined chunks, opting to sort a rational response after insistingly constructing its vowels and syllables, embarrassingly lurching on her tongue tip to be reproduced or on the contrary die in the thin air. Hitching her breathing as the both pious members of the church’s hearts leaped as if they’re in seventh heaven to behold one another surreptitiously in the middle of the night especially on the front door of Timothy’s privately owned property. Furthermore, Timothy glimpsed vividly into the wee hints of Judy’s embarrassment, perpetually dominating into her stutters and pauses even hitched breathing. “But you aren’t behaving like the normal Timothy I’ve ever known in the past days.”

“I’m totally fine after the exorcism.” In the interval, honing up his piercing, brutally honest coffee brown bijous with its austere sharpness, glinting into them and illuminating brightly, charmingly his straightforwardness which contoured roughly, sternly the former sleazy nightclub singer’s facial attributes abruptly. “I can take care of myself as well.”

“There’s something particularly wrong,” Even though Jude’s pure optimism when it was a joint word about the younger gentleman, nevertheless, this time was peculiarly different for her and altering gradually her worldview. Even finding herself amorously staring at the British compatriot in the most presentable way, she couldn’t see Timothy in the same light ever again especially after the exorcism and taking care of you during your stay in the infamous, old madhouse. “I can ever see and smell it.” At the moment, the sole thing what Timothy did was manifesting his strong, muscly arms to fold across his muscly, toned chest, whereas maneuvering his big, roundish eyes to roll dramatically, cold-bloodedly at the nun’s words with its chromatically altering nuances.

\--- ******* \---

\--- _The Next Morning_ \---

\--- _2nd of November, 1964_ \---

As soon as the nocturnal daily episode bled slowly but surely into the vibrantly radiant daylight with the common silver-tongued, melodious birdsongs, donging circa your property, you came to your senses just a half an hour before your workday actually started at last.

Within your recalcitrantly haste and versatility, dominating in the process of getting ready for the day with taking a fresh lukewarm morning shower, fashionably donning up into comfy, refined attires and having a quick breakfast along with dolling up your hair, on your way to flee the flat you’re freely living, the mailman was delivering to each family name’s mailbox opulent of newspapers and new messages.

After violently slamming the front door due to the ginormous pressure you’re nicked with when you were on the verge to be late for work, the mailman wasn’t candidly startled by the vehement noise at all.

“You have a new message, Miss L/N!” The stark jubilance, vibrantly puncturing the older gentleman’s utterance brought you a vaguely prim, radiant smile, permeating across your naturally cherub, nude pink lips as you checked your mailbox for freshly earned newspapers or on the contrary messages.

As soon as superbly enveloped message drew your attention promptly, you couldn’t help but unwrap its entrance and discover its paradoxal mysteries behind the message with snatching stealthily its anonymous sheet of paper with short message molted your heart after taking your time to peruse it studiously, examining in a scrutiny the graceful manuscript with its glimmering ink past your {E/C} cabochons, paired with an amorously cute drawing of you even though its lacking art talent.

_Dear Y/N,_

_I’m sending you this message along with its drawing, because you truly deserve to be happy and to feel special!_

_All I wish you is a sheer happiness along with living your life without troubles or if there are any troubles, otherwise stay strong and chin up! That’s what I can sincerely advise you along with strongly believing in yourself that you can do it instead on giving up in the beginning!_

_You’re a wonderful one of a kind creature and that’s why I’m proud of you for staying strong and still alive, despite the tribulations!_

_You deserve the best!_

_From a friend of yours_

Despite your lacking certainness to discover who’s responsible for the real message sender, anyway the only thing you could do momentarily was rapidly permeating its broadness of your brightly delighted smile. Your heart candidly rabid leaped and without thinking twice your dainty pristine fingers were curled around its frail fabric and walking away from your property’s territory and aiming to work without losing faith in yourself.
    
    
      **
          
    
          
    
          
    
      **
    


	16. Devil's Turn

**🐍 ** _Hell is empty_

_and_

_all the devils_

_are here._ ** 🐍**

\--- ***** **\---  
\---_ A Few Hours Later or So _\---

Once you arrived on the workplace and you were almost on the verge to be fired after your manager desiderated to pay a visit to his office for an exceedingly formal and professional conversation with the escorting sequence of despondence and mild irritation, anyway you were released from your manager's office shortly afterwards.

Within your very presence slowly but surely bled into the perpetual shift in the bar with serving diligently the rich variety of ocean of clients, either satisfied or dissatisfied, you kept your work with your co-workers that were in the same shift as well.

Once the daily episode's progression was smoothly gradual and chromatically illustrating the rich nuances embellishing of the daylight, suddenly for your surprise one of the recent customers was nobody else than a priest.

The devotional clergyman's physique differed from Timothy that was dully apparent, nevertheless, their age range interpreted the closeness of their tiny age gap the both gentlemen indisputably traded.

Within the bizarre, lukewarm presence of Father James seating in complete solicitude in the profoundest corners of the cafeteria by judging his respectful ecclesiastic title and presumable characteristical nature, incarnating the genuine notion of his solicitude appreciation, it still bizarrely astounded you even though he’s presumed to be a plain customer like the others, regardless their occupation, status and so forth factors.

“_I can see you're slipping away from me and you're so afraid that I'll plead with you to stay! But I'm gonna be strong and let you go your way!_” The cafeteria’s background slowly but surely fell a victim under the lull of the recent song that was playing on the speakers Gonna Be Strong by Gene Pitney, tingling its discreetly silver-tongued tunes into the dwellers’ vulnerable ears. The mass of the clients wasn’t enormous, nor compulsively small at the moment at all. The early November noon’s celestially aureate sun filtered violently, promisingly with its saturating patchy mantle the façade’s interior.

When you approached the solicitude territory of the redhead who was sitting by himself and his pristinely potent fingers fixing his priest collar neatly beneath the discreetly soothing touch of his fingertips slugging onto the featherly soft fabric, an unnerved heavy sigh flushed his tiny, flexible nostrils.

The opulent vast fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, tea, food and diversity of beverages wafted past your nose for hours with headstrongly manipulating your muscles to roam around and carry either full trays of food and beverages of the customers or on the contrary already emptied dishes, mugs and glasses with its leftovers chunks, populating the tray’s surface.

“Good day, Father! Here’s the menu.” Trading richly broad, slightly prim sympathetic smiles, tattooed on your faces with its beautifully esthetic golden curtain of sunlight, mystically illuminating partly your profiles and saturating your facial features, whereas your once persistently stubbornly dainty fingers bracing the menu with its leather material battering your digits and fingertips, subsequently you handed it to the redhead during the strong maintenance of friendly, glowing eye contact.

“Good day, Miss! Thank you!” Nodding humbly, meekly your head to indicate your politeness as James earned successfully his menu, in order to choose anything to order for himself and thereafter somehow pamper himself during his brief stay. The honeyed softness of his Irish lilt didn’t cease to amaze you at first sight, in spite of you have never encountered or had any interactions with him ever before even like brief conversations for a handful of minutes with swapping a couple of words.

When the older gentleman’s virginally parchment, dexterous fingers neatly smart flipped the very first page of the menu with the starter menu and beverages, highly recommended for every customer as his hazelish-brown embers eagerly studious scanned the ink, smirching with galore of letters its food and drinks’ original names, within your retire back to the interact with other recently arrived customers.

Shortly after you gave the menus to the currently arrived clients and professionally accept Father James’s order a freshly brewed green tea, consequently when your femininely elvish, creamy hands warily carried the freshly brewed, steamy brewed green tea to the most far cafeteria’s corners to serve presentably, graciously to the holy man his mug of steamy hot beverage, on your way to business the awkwardness of his gruffily cleared throat with a muffled cough requested your attention promptly.

“My child, can we discuss something in private for a minute,” All of the sudden, his graciously honest honey brown jewels imbibed your youthful grace and physique with a mere gaze, begging you to still your attention to him without retreating to service formally the other mercurially anticipating customers with their empty tables. The oddness sending you icy chills in your spine to have a private conversation with nobody else than a devotional man of the cloth scarcely diminished your interest, howsoever, it didn’t plummet down the sentiment of cowing you to trade for a few minutes a couple of words with the stranger priest. The sole speculation that crossed your hurricane of thoughts was that there are possible chances the ginger to be a co-worker with Timothy. “If you don’t have a lot of work to maintain this place?” The stark politeness unmasked the real identity of the ginger and invitingly maintaining an appropriate, profound eye contact without breaking it off brassly unimaginable, inappropriately.

“S-Sure, why not, Father?” Lingering your honeyed Maryland lilt to puncture your rhetorical stutters, inching meagerly the table with your petite frame was close enough space for you and James’s voices to be genuinely discernible with reproducing each other’s elaborated syllables and vowels into rationally constructed utterances.

“_Love is gone__! __There's no sense in holding on__ a__nd your pity now__! __Would be more than I could bare__! __But I'm gonna be strong__ a__nd pretend I don't care__!_”

“I didn’t mean to be nosey, but,” Shortly before his berry-coloured, wet tongue to craft the imminent utterance with its fizzling chance of eloquence due to his obvious distress, unwelcomingly stern contouring his facial attributes, meanwhile, his manly marbled fingers danced around the mug of green tea’s handle and afterward lifting it to gulp tiny, guiltless sips from the liquid. You momentarily registered to squeeze your naturally cherub, mauve lips in a thoughtful, cautious purse, being all ears to assimilate fully the redhead’s enquiry. “But do you know Monsignor Timothy Howard?” Despite how amicable the unknown member of the clergy appeared to be, the enquiry almost bestowed you a heart attack as the thin, flimsily rusty elasticity of your frail heart thudding in your ribcage leaped and raced in the same time, synchronizing multiple violently frosty chills, sedating your bones and muscles due to the unpredictability of the older gentleman’s posed question, begging for an immediate answer.

Reconsidering his posed question for a quarter a minute without averting your gaze from his that speared yours magnetically, straightforwardly, a bittersweet lump bulged into your feminine Adam’s apple and subsequently managing to swig it after flexing lazily your throat muscles.

In spite of the level of its informality, the enquiry somehow struck you bolt from the blue.

"Y-Yes, Father! I know him." Despite the short length of your elaborated response, the series of stammers was inevitable. A heavy sigh unloaded your ribcage after conjugating the fresh oxygen and inhaling then exhaling. "Why are you asking?" Then no response, nor any single motion curled its own muscle to affirm your inquiry. "Do you know him also personally?"

"Well, we work together,"

"Mhm!" Manifesting to bob your head in solemn agreement, you lingered the seized purse of your naturally mauve lips thoughtfully.

"And he has told me a lot of things about you." Suddenly another soar lump seethed your throat, anticipating for a buoyant, ferocious vouch, throughout gulping sluggishly, due to the fact, Father James personally knew the British compatriot and their mutual daily conversations situated its own trade inside the chapel or whenever they had the chance to swap a couple of words. "You used to be committed to Briarcliff against your will and he got you out."

"It's true!" Without any single doubt, lacing sweetly your Maryland lilt indicated your emphatic revelation shortly after a bashfully rueful smile, weak enough to blur any skeptical hints flourished upon your mouth.”I was falsely committed to that mental institution and he was the only one who granted me the freedom I deserved in the range of days.”

“He’s doubtlessly a good guy,” Beamingly content grin curved his mouth into a soft O with his bared, tea-stained ivory teeth, glimmering with their brilliantly youthful, neat glossiness past your {E/C} bijous, despite the wee hints of woefulness donned up in its beaming pattern. “But in the last past days, you know, how tough they become after Halloween!” Delivering the exact sequel to his monologue with twisting a grotesquely bleak frown, blurring any patterns of mirth to embellish his facial attributes and the still brilliantly aesthetic sunny cloak’s illumination, curtaining his façade haphazardly didn’t cease to linger the spotlight of its darkness as addition decoration and the medley of strawberry red strands under its thickly dispersing accent of the early November sun.

“Yes, the exorcism of that teenage boy and the blackout!” Maneuvering your head to nod modestly, woefully, lingering your pensively pursed lips. The heartbreaking topic was actually raised in the cafeteria and in the middle of nowhere with nobody else than Father James that’s actually one of the priests that collaborates with the British compatriot. Even a simple discussion with a stranger especially a religious clergyman was a medley of disquietude, sheer heartache and coyly formidable. You deeply knew you weren’t the only one who was highly affected by his spiritual possession and having a potent impact on your physical and mental stamina. You weren’t the only one who was candidly concerned for Timothy and his condition in general. “Yes! It’s quite distressing all this and I’m really sorry to hear about it, Father!”

“Needless to be sorry for anything, my child!” As soon as the recurring dance of his virginally potent, stubbornly smooth fingers waltzed around the cup’s handle to lift it and gulp the green liquid into tiny, delightfully soothing sips to hydrate his organs and anatomy along with faintly searing his tongue, thereafter a wry chuckle clicked the roof of his mouth. “It’s also a tough experience for me that a close friend of mine is being through this,” Another stutter limped awkwardly forward and backward on his tongue tip restlessly, ruthlessly. “Obnoxious spiritual possession. It’s not his fault at all as well!”

“Well, exorcism will help him to get rid off the demon,”

“_I'm gonna be strong__ a__nd stand as tall as I can__! __I'm gonna be strong  
And let you go along__! __And take it like a man__! __When you say it's the end__!_”

“You’re actually right, but he will acknowledge that we’re organizing a conspiracy against him behind his back!”

“Who cares what the demon thinks about it?” In the interval, a crystal, vibrantly wry tear besprinkled your lower eyelid abruptly at the thought of the demarcation between the sacred life and the unholy death if an exorcism is performed on the British aristocrat to bash the invincible demon out of his frail skeleton. Even though you and Timothy were scarcely friends or on the contrary deeming your platonic relationship just as acquaintances solely, nevertheless, his demise somehow would highly affect your physical and mental stamina with tempest of hysterical sobs and numbness just after everything he’s done for you. You dearly treasured every ounce of his benevolence and deeds, altruistically sacrificing for your freedom and ethereally unexplainable felicity. “He better know what we’re going to do to save his fragile soul rather than watching him suffer with that demon inside him and commanding him to torture in the most possible sadistic way with every ounce of his being.”

“If you’re still asking yourself who will bash the demon out of him, I won’t do it on my own.”

“Then with who?”

“With our mentor Father Malachi.” All of a sudden, strangely clawing lazily unknowledgeable the rim of the table with your spidery delicate fingers, a pair of oddly secure, reassuring fingers of larger hand pawed yours, offering you a benevolently comforting smile, flexing the redhead’s jaw as your {E/C} cabochons landed on the heartwarming prospect. “Moreover, you’re invited to the church special event tomorrow where there is going to be a surprise!”

“Father, I haven’t attended church for a few years,” A radiantly changeable its patterns smirk blossomed upon your mouth, spearing with your stare his caramel brown cabochons as your heart skipped series of beats due to the heartwarming touch, lingering its comforting warmness to swaddle your brittle flesh. “However, I’ll come to that church special event tomorrow. What time is going to be?” Meanwhile, the sheepishness of its heat warming the pit of your stomach slightly startled you, collaborating with sedating your muscles and bones under the spellbinding

“It’s going to be approximately eight and a half o’clock in the morning. It’s going to start with a mass and therefore with games and other entertaining stuff, taking its place in the local church.”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _Later that Day_ \---

When the daylight episode became a bloodthirstily infernal victim of the day’s evolution and bled into night time with its unceasingly darkening outdoors realistic illustration, your shift in the cafeteria was almost on verge to be finished along with the quantity of the clients diminishing throughout the advancing evolution of the day.

In spite of your atheism or at least absence of piousness, interpreting your actual religion and beliefs, it didn’t cease your emphatic decision to be enforced to go to the church due to its prominently promising event tomorrow.

What it struck you first about Father James was his bountiful benevolence and open-mindedness, welling in his frail skeleton under the form of a hallowed fountain of hopes, sympathy and brilliantly good vibes, gracing you with uncommon comfort while maintaining a platonic proximity with him.

The uneasiness of the wall clock ticking and calculating the exact time as if the demise was anticipating eagerly, thirstily for its impending prey to vanish in the thin air jingled its alarming tones into your vulnerable ears, additionally paired in the evening prospect of a handful of random customers occupying the building’s interior with their very presences and either drinking or eating as you were absent-mindedly pondering abysmally in your thoughts and questioning the entire day’s dynamic roller coaster.

In the meanwhile, your glassily jaded gaze, bewitchingly imbibing the ginormous gap of customers and the wall clock insanely drained almost every cell of your vortex of thoughts with pondering and tarrying into the patchy hollow, barely burdening and registering any motion of your muscles.

At the moment, reassuringly ambient classic music was playing on loop in the background, opting to be an entertaining distraction for its recent visitors, regardless their music taste.

In the earlier hours of the day, the music’s opulence altered into vintage and jazz and any other music genre that consisted lyrics unlike the wee hours of the evening with its welcoming, nonchalantly soothing, hair-rising classical music, esthetically tingling its melodiously abstract, expressive tunes in its instrumental only.

During the peacefully elating moments when you could catch a glimpse of your clients’ humors whilst drinking, eating, trading with one another diversity of words or at least maintaining an eye contact, the haphazardness of the ringing phone, battered to the wall caught you off guard and snapping you out of your reverie realm as in first place one of your elvish, weathered hands grappled the retro onyx black earpiece to accept directly the phone call, due to its urgency.

“H-Hello!”

The abruptness of the rustily blood-curdling pip noise ruthlessly throbbing into your ear as your spidery creamy fingers waltzed in tandem around the earpiece’s material didn’t fail to surprise you, factly, you’ve encountered somewhat similar cases to wrong phone calls that seemed to have their own importance at first until their owners just either tricked you or at least accidentally called the wrong person.

“Y/N, I know who was in the cafeteria earlier today!”

“I didn’t see you in the cafeteria earlier today, Timothy!” The trembling motion of your fingers and the humdrum chatter of your balefully gritted firm, ivory teeth indicated the genuine symptoms of your formidable apprehension from the British aristocrat with the vile essence, populating his frail skeleton. Meantime, you shot your {E/C} gemstones fleetly at the clients and the front door, swallowing hard, whereas a deeply, steamily raspy snicker emanated from the earpiece, veiling your forehead and palm with thick, generous layer of perspiration, glinting beneath the dim light’s illumination of the interior. “I’m sincerely sorry.”

“I don’t need to be there always so that to know who’s visiting your workplace, Miss Y/N! Was there a priest,”

“W-What?” Cutting him curtly short with stark perplexion, accenting your brief posed question dimly spoke emotions into your voice and body language and nauseous chilliness battered in the pit of your stomach brashly as if you had just received a phone call from nobody else than a nefarious serial killer, still wanted with his rich criminal history, despite the fact, Timothy wasn’t even a serial killer and accused in any vicious homicide of a guiltless soul.

“That’s right! Was there a priest on your workplace earlier today?”

“W-Why you’re asking this?” The odd change in the ambitious Monsignor’s demeanor didn’t fail to sinfully bewilder you. It was pretty evident the vile essence has already corrupted him and slowly but surely destroying him to bones. The pure, childlike naivety laced desperately your doe, meek timbre’s hexed posed question.

“You’re smart and objective enough to tell me the truth, Y/N!” Manifesting a humble, childlike bob of your head in solemn agreement, the sharpness of his sternness punctured his English lilt and the naked incarnation of adrenaline and mild ire hammering the vowels and syllables in the end of his utterance. “I don’t want to know it on my own.”

“There was a priest.” In the meantime, you managed to despondently, modestly duck your head as your {E/C} jewels encountered the dull illustration of the floor and your feet, in order to conceal the invincible sultrily desperate heavy rain of fat tears trickling downward your cheeks, saltily staining your glossy facial skin without tearing off your doe voice at all. “Yeah!” When the delicately flimsy fingertips of your spidery fingers propped the bountifully thick layer of awkward clamminess, coating your forehead, thus you registered a daub with the back of your hand to regulate its moderate smoothness of your facial skin. “But please, Timothy, don’t think of hurting him or me! He has done nothing wrong! There’s something inside you that has changed you.” All of a sudden, the phone conversation cut off as its mutual connection which you shared for a handful of minutes with the older man no longer provided you the contact you could afford with him for now until either the impending phone call or otherwise a personal encounter.

A woeful, tearfully melancholic frown creased across your youthful, fresh complexion and putting back the earpiece to the phone until your nostrils flushed a jadedly light-heavy sigh and subsequently dabbing with your digits and fingertips the translucent cataract of salty tears.

It deeply hurt you how once the ambitious Monsignor that has even sacrificed almost his life and career to get you out of the infamous, old mental institution for criminally insane has abruptly transmuted into a nightmarish incarnation of the real danger with the devil inside him. You would do anything even arrange an altruistically reliable exorcism to grant him the freedom of the unhallowed corruption and the demise, although the somewhat chances of his alive status to be erased as well.

**Author's Note: I know how eerier it turns out to be this story, however, blame for that possessed Timothy! I'm just joking, of course! Anyway if you haven't read the previous chapters and you're just skipping up to this one, subsequently don't forget to take a look at the previous ones, in order to not bring a huge mass of spoilers for yourself and diminishing your interest in this story, no matter how loyal reader you're! I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter! :))**


	17. Church Event

**💉 ** _The Art of losing myself_

_In bringing You praise._ ** 💉**

\--- ***** **\---

Following the awkward pip of the cut off phone, tingling alarming tones into your vulnerable ears, subsequently your petite, creamy hand manipulated to adjust back the earpiece as your E/C cabochons landed on the fairly small mass of customers, inching the very first tables as well. 

You wanted to make sure you weren't perceived wrong, nor earn ocean of rotund, inquiring gems, transfixed on the utmost prospect of their attention.

A bitter lump's abruptness of seething your flimsy, satin throat begged for an immediate vouch with maneuvering the throat muscles to swig hungrily, slightly embarrassingly.

Twains of inquiring, childlike inquisitive gems speared your physique, glimmering brightly the incarnation of their strangely disturbing curiosity, typical for each peculiar stranger's nature.

Meanwhile, the sole thing to numb and prevent every morbidly unnerving segment of the illustration that you may recall in the impending a handful of years with a woefully sarcastic chuckle was tugging an awkwardly childish, amiable smile at the corners of your chapped mouth, bobbing meekly your head to reaffirm that everything was alright. Everything was actually alright. That was the solely relieving, optimistically soothing words lacing sweetly with mystically dim flavour of saltiness in its reproduction, dying on your tongue tip.

Fortunately, those customers were nothing else than just strangers, paying visit to your workplace for being served with beverages and dishes and earn cash due to the promising service and responsibilities. They could altruistically question your facial expression that adorned unwelcomingly, villainously during your brief phone conversation with the possessed clergyman.

At the moment, the haphazardness of the interrupted doldrum particularly pitched the background with the notorious squeak of the double cherry wood door, swinging broadly opened at the sight of the forthcoming visitor with its very presence assaulting the building's interior. The German-Canadian compatriot's petite-frame perpetually marched up to the bar to maintain an adequately platonic intimate proximity within a quarter a minute as her elegantly classy chunks whispered loudly against the ground, ghosting conveniently extravagant with the footsteps to track your immobility.

"Hi Dana!" The opulence of merriness remarkably punctured your informal greeting towards the ginger whose mop of flawlessly, authentically silken red strands bounced in choir and tandem, curtaining her porcelain, youthful façade. Your heart skipped a monotonously explosive beat, drumming vigorously into your frail chest. "It's nice to see you in the end of my shift."

"Hi Y/N! I'm having a hard time without you, you know!" Once your proximity diminished in smaller scale with thick elasticity, stretching your figures to indicate the platonic intimacy you traded mutually, a sympathetically glowing grin curved your cherub lips into a delightful, expressive grin." Anyway it's nice to see you in the end of your shift as well."

"Sure! I bet you're fine." Despite a handful of childlike, doely inquisitive gemstones imbibed devilishly the prospect of the platonic relationship you shared with Dana, the only intimately friendly motion you waltzed its tandem was spreading widely, optimistically your satin arms to scoop yourselves in kindheartedly loving, tight hugs that hitched your breathing dully, unspeakably.

"Yeah, after seeing you being on your feet even during such tough shift when I was supposed to be at home instead having bonus work time."

"For sure!" The older lady ushered a raspy, perkily rusty snigger to hammer her wet, strawberry-coloured tongue, jingling serene, sacred angelic hymns into your ears as you couldn't restrain yourself to join the lavish choir on your own emphatically. "Is there something new?" In the meanwhile, Dana managed to quirk quizzically, emotionally a thin, elegant eyebrow until an embarrassing, gullible hush swaddled coldly between you with clearing your throat softly. "Come on, Y/N! Spill the tea!" Her stubbornness starkly begged strong-willedly to earn the answer she's looking for with strong eagerness.

"Well, I received an odd phone call from,"

"From who? Your holy Romeo?" The starkly sardonic and diabolical sarcasm of the redhead's rhetorical inquiries tingled alarming tones into your ears, hardly daring to oppress its boldly half-hearted, lukewarmly vibrant chuckles, dripping from your mouths.

"He isn't my holy Romeo, Dana! Just cut that crap, okay?" Mild annoyance prominently touched your hiss, flaring your nostrils wryly dry whilst registering to fold your arms.

"It's evident by the way you talk about him as if he is the knight in the shining armor that got you out of the snake pit."

"Due to the fact, I fully respect him and treasure pearly everything he has done for me," In the interval, you managed to bedaub with the back of your unblemishedly petite, creamy hand the bountifully thick mantle of sweat, fabulously coating your temple, assimilating rationally your half utterance just before granting graciously its sequel. "That doesn't mean I worship him as a knight in his own shining armor." The haphazardness of the German-Canadian compatriot's cheerful raised an arch of her elegantly thin eyebrow, whereas you manipulated your throat to contract tightly, welcomingly the bitter lump, bubbling in your throat just before swigging it hungrily and thereafter managing to clear dramatically cold-blooded your throat with a muffled cough. "He's a damn priest and devoted dearly to the cloth. How you can imagine him falling in love with a total mess, plain former drug dealer? Just explain that logic of yours, Miss Dana Schwarz!"

"Well, when you fainted on Halloween after acknowledging via the radio news that he passed out after the exorcism that poor boy." At the moment, the older woman's spidery alabaster, creamily soothing fingers manifested to reach for a fistful of joyously stray H/C strands, curtaining beautifully lively your façade. The subsequence of the mischievous fingering and playing process with the fistful of stray strands didn't cease to astonish you. The series of breathtakingly remarkable blinks, wrenching your E/C gemstones flapped broadly, freely your long, thickly ebon eyelashes at the delicately reassuring touch of your hair. "The black rose he gave you on your arranged release from that freaking snake pit. Furthermore, the way you talk about him as if he isn't just your ordinary priest at all."

The fact that your old high school friend candidly apt to detect your pure, hair-rising weakness or rather sinful temptation and unsacredly gloomy secrets, arcanely veiled and strictly caged in the Pandora's Box, a medley of dim irritation and naked bewilderment roared into your muscles and flimsy bones.

\--- ***** **\---  
\---_ The Next Morning _\---  
\--- _3rd of November, 1964 _\---

The daily monotonous night time slowly but surely bled into daylight with its silver-tongued, blissfully chirping morning birdsongs, pitching the background's mid-autumn vista.

It was high time for the church's special event as you informed your manager for your absence in the range of hours, enduring sluggishly at snail's pace.

When you came to your senses slightly earlier than the usual, you had a promisingly mouth-watering breakfast along with a sloppily relaxing, lukewarm shower and getting ready for the day quicker than the usual.

As soon as you left your flat, the monotonously drone of classy jet-black fashionable chunks whispered unnervingly against the luxuriously lavish carpet of multi-coloured, vastly crispy leaves, magnificently swaddling beneath your shoed feet. The awful mild, distractingly serene autumn breeze howled mischievously and waltzed amorously as your unruly glossy strands bounced in tandem, slapping weakly, childishly your façade.

Passing confidently ocean of strangers, starkly tall trees and tall, rich variety of buildings, there was no particular reason to be in hurry, in spite of your hasty agitation to reach your forthcoming destination after persistently hauling and maneuvering your muscles' anatomy to encounter the sacred building of God with the plenty of extraordinarily breathtaking, happy flowerbeds prominently adorning the grandiose yard. The rotund, weak sun's subtle vibrant slit bleeding into a radiant, scintillating gore spotlighting with its bright illumination the living and immobile surroundings.

The thought of the special church event prominently flashed a beamingly impatient, childishly candid smile upon your youthful, silken complexion. The arduous preparation for the event and the games spread broadly like book pages past your vision, surveying in a scrutiny in the corner of your eye the galore of strangers ghosting with their lukewarm presences the grandiose yard even some of them sharing conversations with a handful of nuns and clergymen. Certain visitors' childishly buoyant, vigorous agitation readily inked upon their facial features. Or on the contrary, there were other visitors whose excitement hasn't even escalated to its celestially complacent apogee.

"Good morning, Y/N!" All of a sudden, the haphazardness of the eerily unpredictably presence of the former licentious jazz nightclub singer snapped you out of your idle reverie, relentlessly clouding your hurricane of thoughts. When you managed to shift your attention to the senior woman of the cloth as your E/C rotund embers squinted up at her surprisingly welcoming, vibrant contour of her elderly appealing facial attributes in a jiffy. The thickly fabulous warmness of its bleeding broad smile, curving upon her naturally nude pink, cherub lips. The sheerly blameless, heartwarming mantle, benevolently mellow illuminating her honey brown embers, blazing with intensifying kindness and honesty, coupled bountifully during the eye contact's maintenance locking up your gazes.

Little did you know when you would confront again the very presence of the woman of the cloth with whom you traded stealthily the most embarrassingly, adroitly sultry kiss ever in your life. Howsoever, the destiny brought both of you again or otherwise she was invited by her boss to be part of the church event, giving herself some break from canning ocean of rebellious inmates even being charge of an old, infamously dilapidating mental hospital.

"Good morning, Sister! I didn't expect you so far." The bareness of your girlish sheepishness didn't cease to astonish the blonde, stilling your smiles, despite wearing thousand patterns of vibrantly coyness, remarkably hazing every hue of despondence and haughtiness, readable across your façade.

"Well, for which time are ya going to address me Sister, Y/N?" A heavy, dramatically cold-hearted sigh measured her perky patience and versatility with its recurringly coursing oxygen at the top of her brittle lungs, whilst manifesting to knot her elvish, creamy hands as her spidery marbled fingers clawed each other's grip.

"You are just a nun for me. Nothing more!" The emphatic boldness venomously battered your tongue tip after clumsily elaborating the utterance, honing the accent of your current relationship status with the blonde. Just keeping to its absolute reality and how the things were realistically constructing by a brick every segment of its enormous, crudely cold world nonetheless.

"Just a nun, Y/N?" Even though your pragmatic realism, cusping smoothly with your logic, nevertheless, the hoarseness of the forcefully half-hearted, cold-blooded snicker took advantage of the older lady, stilling the battering eyeing to your young-looking, full profile." Ya have to be kidding me." Pinkess momentarily generously tickled your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks, paired with sweltering, uncomfortable heat creeping beneath your hypodermic facial skin. "Who is saying I'm just a nun to you, Miss Y/N?" The mortification bleakly painting the vista of your awkward interaction with Jude graced you with a hopeful cue to not being in the divine center of attention in the yard at all.

"I do, Sister Jude!"

"Say it out loud just Judy or Jude, instead of making me nervous with addressing me as if yar repenting for your sins, Y/N!" Pinching widened your E/C gemstones when you switched your focus on the other unwelcoming participant in your private conversation whose very presence mildly startled you unlike Jude. The British aristocrat's relentlessly tall figure accompanied gruesomely uncomfortable you.

"Rare bird, do not embarrass the poor girl to address you informally as if you are just friends!" In the meanwhile, the British aristocrat ushered his colossal, ghostly pale hand to claw gingerly, friendly the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer's dainty, delicate shoulder and his pristinely dexterous fingers presentably, graciously kneading the rigidly shapeless fabric of her conservatively wool, dark habit, admiring her curves and slender figure structuring her physique. "I know what you exactly do to her days ago." A heavy sigh sinfully flushed the older woman's tiny, flexible nostrils whilst her porcelain, elderly young-looking complexion darkened in a healthily cherry red hue, narrowing her pools of profoundly sensitive caramel brown at the man of the cloth.

"Timothy," Hitching her breathing and promptly rusting its huskiness in her waltzing undertone, Judy maneuvered her elvish, fidgety hand's ghostly pale, dainty fingers mellowly, teasingly fingering and pawing her chest, sensing the vehement drums of her heart pulsations, massaging gently, discreetly her digits and fingertips. "We're having a personal conversation. Could ya leave us for a minute, please?"

"There is nothing personal by judging your facial expressions, ladies!" A wickedly ominous smirk discreetly crinkled across his mouth, breaking his facial expression into hypodermically inexorable darkness, thickly, fabulously camouflaging the once pure innocence, paged up on face. "Moreover, I really need to talk with Y/N!"

"But Timothy," You couldn't help, however, glassy contemplate the fixated stare of yours on the members of the church's conflicting affliction of words trade, moistening embarrassingly your cherub lips after twirling and whirling in the exact apex your berry-coloured, wet tongue to contact with its mischievous dew onto your lower and upper lip.

"There are no buts," Continuously kneading the rigidly conservative, plain fabric of her habit, the honeyed venom prominently touched his authoritative caution, medley of huskiness and sultry deepness chanted its own ballad. "Jude! Just go!" A mischievously begging, hair-rising command twirled and whirled a tempest of chilly shivers, dancing downward in the Bostonian's loins, cooling her anatomy's regular temperature.

"Fine!" The strict sharpness puncturing her frustration, genuinely unmasked in a swift motion the velvety venom, lacing her timbre, meanwhile, Jude managed to retire meekly, hospitably the territory you and Timothy mutually shared in the proximity range of a few inches solely.

“Good morning, Monsignor!”

“For which time are you going to call me Monsignor, Miss Y/N?” Wry sarcasm surrealistically tinkered up his huskily deep, infernal voice, puncturing its prominent emphasis to his posed rhetorical question and the soundtrack of jubilantly light-hearted snickers manifested their own protest from your mouths, having no intentions to die on your tongue tips.

“Timothy,” This time the older gentleman bobbed his head in solemn agreement, reaffirming your façade’s position for altering from formal into informal rapidly. He really liked how you realized quickly your mistake into his address even though you shared along solely less than ten times interaction ever in your lives. “It wasn’t necessary to interfere into my private conversation with Sister Jude.”

“Why?” Playfully raising an arch of his thick, dark eyebrow, questionable brass nuance sheened brightly into his huge, expressive embers, fiercely alight with your presence and having the ginormous luck to encounter you today especially on the church’s event. His fidgety masculinely meaty, smooth fingers mischievously, absent-mindedly teased with the rigid, pleasantly-touchable beads of his rosary that caught your iris for a split second, due to an occasional, fleetly clumsy glance. “You want her to belittle you or something?”

“I don’t know.” Shrugging embarrassingly shy your delicate shoulders, thereafter Timothy registered his only free mammoth, monstrously gentle hand to claw your shoulder blade’s tissue, ghosting with his lusciously feather-soft, protective fingers the sweetly stable cotton fabric of your maroon cardigan. “She wasn’t belittling me at all.”

“Huh? That doesn’t sound promising at all, Y/N!” Shaking his head, stubbornly disapproving your opinion and bashing it out of his mind, his digits and fingertips pleasantly, intelligibly fingered and worshipped hallowedly the cotton fabric beneath his virginal, pure touch. In the interval, testing your own patience to not escalate your shyness, your youthful complexion lingered the naturally esthetic make-up of darkness, permeating its cherry hue healthily imprint onto your facial features.”She isn’t very fond of seeing another lady interacting with me even for a prayer at all.” Helplessly zipping your naturally nude pink, cherub lips into a pensive purse indicated your girlish demureness, readable from head to toes.

“That’s incredibly ridiculous, Timothy!”

“I was thinking the same. Moreover, she is considering the interaction between another lady and a priest even for a prayer it could lead to sin, you know!”

“Sister Jude can say whatever she wants.” Shaking incessantly your head in choir, solemnly disagreeing with the mimicked Bostonian’s caution about the interaction between the aspiring Monsignor and a stranger woman who was seeking modicum of aid or his word at least, a sharp exhale at the top of your frail lungs measured your bare patience at the ridiculousness of the blonde’s monologues. You surreptitiously molted profoundly, pearly into the aspiring Monsignor’s kindheartedly amicable, soft touch grazing your shoulder, craving for its endless sequel to not cease to temporal as well. “She thinks you’re a friend of her.”

“That’s true even though we had almost never had any friendly interactions!”

“It’s true! She hasn’t done anything better for you that cost her life or career at least.” At the moment, stifling a severely frustrated, rusty grunt under your breath when the British compatriot’s fingers dumped your shoulder blade tissue with meekly escorting him to take you inside the chapel, you clamped your front ivory teeth to nibble your bottom chapped lip, apt to tandem its recurring choir. “Sister Jude has only bullied you and caned you just because one night you were absent from your ward.”

“Needless to say it, Timothy!” As soon as his hand fashioned into balled fist pushed the monumentally hardwood chapel’s double door, meantime, his larger frame stepped inside and holding gentlemanly, graciously the door, gracing you with sufficiently enormous space to grant with your presences the building interior’s divine lively prospect. The absence of desolation and emptiness obscured the interior. A couple of people recently populated the chapel. A handful of nuns and priests were getting ready for the event, whereas a handful of promisingly mere visitors recited in a murmur the holy, secure prayer and knotting their fingers, supporting their bowed heads and foreheads’ featherly-soft contact.

\--- ******* \---

\--- _A Couple of Hours Later or So_ \---

As the daily episode slowly but surely progressed into the wee hours of the afternoon and bled into the balmily graceful sun, stunningly casting its celestially gilded, featherly-soft curtain to filter perpetually buildings, living beings and the aesthetically majestic nature illustration, the church games’ outgoing nature demonstrated the visitors’ childlike excitement especially the great deal of audience of children and adults. The church games that were situated in the local Boston chapel’s yard were Name Game, Bible Telephone, Bible Hangman and Bible Scene. In spite of your lacking knowledge and religiousness to win every game, nevertheless, the chance you gave yourself to participate in the games and your ferocious courage didn’t cease to surprise not only Father James, Sister Jude and the majority of the strangers even devotional members of the church, but also Timothy, himself.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the sheer, bloodthirsty eagerness, brassly illuminating the British compatriot’s jewels whilst the chapel games were playing out open-mindedly, jubilantly, each glimpse and stare you caught of his even when you’re utterly, excessively focused on the game, itself, gradual rabid enamored face starkly, shamelessly contoured his handsome facial attributes and unmasking his indifference and prim euphoria when one of the strangers has been gifted with its vanquishing victory.

You were genuinely having fun with the others who traded similar piousness status or they’re excessively pious to attend daily the church for prayers and not missing any single sacred mass.

When there was a wee break from the games, there were certain visitors who were receiving their own presents due to their outstanding visit during its event where the bonuses were a welcoming addition just shortly before fleeing the sacred site.

During the brief break, the British aristocrat manifested privately to you to take you to one of the church’s compact rooms as your little secret and the docile categorical decision of yours, taken in the last minute to humbly follow him wasn’t regrettable. Little did you know what kind of intentions was his with exception oozing of their divine, rich benevolence that wouldn’t speak the troubling language of ruthless harm.

You felt heartwarming sensation of warmness, inescapably heating the pit of your stomach due to the sympathetic, platonic flattery. Even though you were far cry from bold to spill the tea with the devotional clergyman about the little secret which you shared solely with Jude about the passionately brief, prim kiss you swapped mutually in her austere office, that doesn’t mean Timothy wasn’t aware of your arcanely discreet secrets, storing profoundly inside you and solely for you. You wouldn’t covet to hazard the sister of the church’s career just because of the discreetness of the secret, which you potently, dearly vowed one another to not leak even a wee hint or detail behind its context.

The compact battered window of the chapel’s private room where it was solely accessible for pious members of the clergy, the celestially down-to-earth, gilt sun’s daylight light showered breathtakingly through its flimsy window’s glasses, inevitably bathing the room in secure, ambitious light and beautifully curtaining your façades.

In the interim, you both traded seats on the cherry wood chairs, stretching its elasticity distance less than an inch. The eloquently delightful birdsongs chanted their own tuneful ballads outside the hallowed building, generously gifting the ambience with life.

“Would you like a glass of communion wine, Y/N?”

“Yes, please!” Although your lacking crudeness to reject brashly the offer of a glass of scrumptiously insatiable communion wine, the vowels and syllables’ brief clash for domination to build your vouch, fluently and delightfully accepting the offer without any single doubt didn’t cease to flabbergast the older man.

The room where your very presences occupied currently was enough furnished with ocean of chairs, estimated approximately eight, surrounding viciously the double table with a flawlessly satin maroon vase of gardenias sitting motionlessly, modestly in the middle of the hardwood, oak furniture. A tall end table and hive of hallowed icons of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin Mary, angels and other revered saints adorned remarkably, glowingly the sufficiently expansive room.

In order to banish the loneliness of the maroon satin vase, a medium-sized bottle of dark red liquor escorted amiably the paraphernalia.

When Timothy maneuvered to lift up his rear from his seat and approaching the tall end table to retrieve two clearly empty, sheer glasses and then re-participate your company with slamming recklessly faint the glasses on top of the table and removing ruthlessly the tap of the bottle in a swift, deft motion, indicated in his fingers’ musical nimbleness, the haphazardness of your tongue’s manipulation to twirl and lick greedily unblushing your lower and upper cherub, cracked lips soothed your lewd gaze’s opacity, transfixed on the process of pouring its liquor in the glasses.

“B-But Timothy, you’re a priest and,” All of a sudden, when the glasses were dearly prepared with its poured mouth-watering, sinfully luscious wine pooling the glass’s surface per a person, his virginally strong, ghostly pale fingers danced around his glass and lugging it up, offering cheer. A wry smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, subsequently snatching your glass of communion wine and the clinking contact of its cheer stilled your intensifying eye contact. “It’s supposed to be a sin to drink liquor.”

“Don’t be worried about me and my vows, Y/N!” Afterwards you both sipped docilely diligent of your glasses of its alcoholic beverage, lacing your tongues with its indisputably scrumptious flavor of alcohol. Beads of its red liquor esthetically magnified your stare to squint up incredulity at his lower naturally baby-pinkish, plump lip. “I’ll be fine.” Fixating your blankly jaded, glassy gawk at the pale yellowish painted wall, the emptiness lingered on the former seat of its owner with its dumped unfinished glass of communion wine which was oblivious for you until the startling grapple of your forearm caught you off guard and yanking restlessly from your seat, dragging you towards the pale yellow wall, encumbering with his tall figure your shorter, scarcely granting you modicum of breathy space to release yourself from its grip.

“W-What are you doing, Timothy?”

“What were you thinking I’m doing?” In the meantime, a swan thumb fashioned to trace gingerly, gentlemanly your jaw, admiring your ethereally fresh beauty and wine-stained breathing with its relentlessly searing slap fanned your glossy facial skin, breaking your facial expression into a trustless bewilderment, masking your attributes and speaking plenty of emotions. Other colossal, monstrously secure hand secured your middle, lingering its nervously quivering motion. It could be abysmally interpreted in its endlessly complex context under the form of his virginally, sheerly innocent nervousness for not altruistically bestowing any other female with his very own, bewitching touch anywhere else than the representatives of the opposite sex’s faces, hands and shoulders. Instinctively, you draped your satin arms to snake straightforwardly around his toned upper back, bracing his larger-frame with yours on reflex. “I’ve never been with any other woman in my life.”

“I bet you’ve dated or been more than a platonic friend with girls earlier. I mean like high school or something.” Incredulity honed aggressively your complexion and your heart clenched tightly, icily into your chest due to his brass revelation slipping sloppily from his naturally nude pink, plumpish lips after its persistent construction. Even though you would scarcely believe the British aristocrat has never dated any lady in his life, it was sadly true.

“No! You’re my very first one, Y/N!” Then his thumb gingerly perched on your bottom lip, affectionately brushing with its digit the raw spot mellowly and the cozily megawatt meager distance you traded with each other less than an inch unevenly taunted your heart pulsations to accelerate rapidly, hysterically and consequently throbbing viciously vehement into your ribcages. Speechlessness ecstatically, lively caged your frail heart and sedating fragilely your muscles and bones, ebbing off its natural stamina of your round knees. “You don’t realize that I can’t control that.” The context’s discreet depths barely triggered to acknowledge his intentions until he pressed featherly-soft, categorically his berry-coloured, cherub lips to seal yours, sultrily melting into your sincerely first kiss, hitching your breathing and hungrily, irresistibly allowing your adrenaline gear up your sultrily initial kiss.

** Author's Note: Likewise, don't forget to comment your favorite moments or whatever struck you first, because I'd love to hear your thoughts! <3333**


	18. Unholy Hassles


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#####  **😈**_Timothy 3:1_

_But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days._ **😈**

\--- ***** **\---

At first, when the potently megawatt, inexorable process of the sealed kiss with its own reins, stretching the thin elasticity of your linked naturally cherub, lusciously soft lips, sweltering heat zapped the pit of your stomachs abruptly, oblivion fogging swiftly your hurricane of thoughts. Engulfed in your own outstandingly compact world, where the sole population was you and the possessed man of the cloth. The further, bland worries and foreshadowed for the future issues, having their own potential chance to seed their own problematic wights to imperil not only your reputation, but also your names and lives, no longer relentlessly misted and howled aggressively its own rational, intelligible ballad.

In spite of it has been a long time when you have traded a genuinely steamy kiss with a representative of the opposite sex and solemnly oathing yourself to not kiss anybody unless your potent feelings played their own cards right and truly evidenced in your care about the partner, you couldn't flee from the romantically steamy battlefield. The bewitching spellbind of the sweet kiss you traded with the devotional member of the clergy was a sheerly apparent contrast to Jude's. It spoke deeply unimaginable emotions, poured entirely, dearly into its mastery and notion.

The difference was not only utmost humongous, further the emotions and the sentiments, mystically predominating in their one of a kind way.

The kiss which you swapped with the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer was an absolutely blatant drool, speaking volumes about its genuine incarnation of the tension which wasn't even romantic, howsoever, oddly sedated your muscles and bones. Spellbinding with its mystic hex how gorgeously appealing was the Bostonian if you exclude her unwelcomingly austere character. Notwithstanding the stark magic of the differences into the both kisses, Timothy's hungrily emphatic intentions especially due to his invincibly unholy, diabolical master commanding his furious impulse to ignite the celestially potent flames of its unspeakable motives for a pious clergyman like him. Timothy was a candidly devoted member to the cloth and he wouldn't break a vow to imperil viciously his career and reputation. Nevertheless, due to his potently inescapable attraction to nobody else than you after profusely gracing him with your tremendous care and time to listen to his revelation while disinfecting your former obnoxiously plum, vivid bruises, the real adrenaline and impulse dethroned his hallowed rationality and subsequently earning the promiscuously wicked, irked glares of God, studiously observing you after spotlighting his own servant betraying the once solemnly took vows in the beginning of the priesthood.

Initially your unsacredly intentions of performing the objection of the kiss with retirement and fleeing promptly the sufficiently expansive chapel room, profusely bestowing you with enormous free space railed your vagons of thoughts until it escalated to betraying the insanely rabid decision of not savouring once its lusciousness of the kiss which you swapped with the pious clergyman.

Stilling your creamily dainty fingers to cradle gingerly mellow the nape of the older man's delicate neck until your fingers ushered to tower to his short mop of unblemishedly, luxuriously chestnut strands, curtaining beautifully his charming facial attributes, consequently managing to comb your digits and fingertips along with the dose of fingering process through his chestnut, thickly refined strands, admiring the crispy softness of his hair.

As the kiss escalate to ferociously steamy and conjugating series of breathless moans and groans coursing through your brittle lungs, the gentle squeeze of your waist's recurring brace emboldened boldly the British compatriot to twirl his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to optimistically encourage your lips to part during the strong-willedly profuse duel of tongues, ominously, desperately fighting for domination, lingering your pinched shut eyelids to critically affect the kiss's mesmerizingly magnetic phenomenon as you both leisurely molted without having the farther care about the rest of the general population's existence and their real motives that may criminally hazard your surreptitiously cryptic relationship. Ocean of syllables and vowels were almost dying on your tongue tips to urgently forge their brilliant utterances, expressing genuinely your thoughts.

"I'm crazy about you, Y/N!"

"You're insane!" As soon as the holy man plugged his wet, berry-coloured tongue inside your mouth, sealing the kiss which escalated into French, meantime, you linked your rested foreheads on skin by skin, despite the incessant functioning of your gears of thoughts, reproducing their own very imagination and creativity depicting your private, small bubble of your worldview. You didn't want to break off the kiss in the most embarrassing way even thinking of hazardously telling into his face the inner voice's bare, unmasked thought of his utterance.

"Monsignor!" The haphazardness of the dose of raps, dully, morbidly clunking against the hardwood material mildly caught you off guard along with the megawatt, exceeding decibels into Jude's address when one of Timothy's larger, virginally creamy hands manipulated to reach for your H/L hair's luxurious locks to teasingly, amorously play and finger them. "Monsignor!" Dawdling your hitched breathing apt to tandem then you caught-off-guard halted the kiss as tried to regenerate your breathless brittle lungs and barely inch proximity dimly increased, dividing your intimate space you shared together.

"I'm dearly sorry, Y/N!" After a persistent clash of vowels and syllables, slurping to their own demise inside the ambitious Monsignor's wine-stained oral caverns, hydrating luxuriously his organs, in the interim, he pawed gingerly your well-sculptured, healthily chubby cheek in the palm of his flabbergastingly warm, consolingly protective hand, bestowing you with myriad of pure, hair-rising warmness and unconditional love. "I love you!" A sharp, coy exhale fastened his ribcage after flushing stubbornly his tiny, vulnerable nostrils and inhaling the deliciously opulent fragrance of your cologne, admiring your crispy youthful grace and your one of a kind physique.

"Don't apologize, Timothy! I love you too!" After calmly stern caution slipped sloppily from your mouth, consequently the romantic revelation pinched widened in scrumptiously sweet shock, readable all past his handsome facial attributes. Sweltering heat postponed to dump relentlessly your facial skin with its pinkness bountifully sympathetic tickling playfully with its finger, mellow motion.

"Timothy! Are ya busy?" Another dose of raps, hammering vehemently, lively against the wooden material didn't taunt your muscles to flinch at surprise at all,balefully gritting her teeth due to the lacking response and sheer abstinence in the British aristocrat's mannerism.

"Just a second, Jude!" Within a split second, the masculinely feather-soft, ghostly pale fingers slithered from your jaw and your H/C mane and trustless frustration scowled to sketch your facial attributes momentarily due to the warmness's abrupt replacement with disappointing lukewarmness roaring onto your facial flesh. At the moment, the older gentleman retired to the locked door and managing to maneuvere his virginally silken fingers to twirl the key in the rusty keyhole and within a single click the door unlocked, throughout swinging merely opened with its sufficient space, offering hospitably its gap that granted the uninvited guest to peer curiously. "Hi my rare bird!"

A glowingly benevolent smile permeated smoothly past his mouth, opting to not show any wee signs and hints of leeriness, indicated either in his mannerism body language or on the contrary utterances and leaking the true notion of his mystically arcane nature. The hybrid of the humanoid devil or rather the fiendish mortal with nirvanically apocalyptic, invincible supernatural power, coursing through his veins and stabilizing his bones and muscles with immunity against any damage. Moreover, the first face of Timothy heinously insisted his vulnerability and mystic fiendish side don't leak, nor being slyly detected. The first and true face of the aspiring Monsignor.

"My goodness!" Muffling your venomously velvety whisper with its headstrong Maryland lilt, puncturing its sheerly silky accent to declaim the safety of hardly exposing starkly your very presence within a single sloppy syllable, formulating its own performance instantly. The heart pulsations' acceleration frequented its tandem, playfully vehemently thwacking into your chest and a handful of pristinely creamy fingers pawed the violent sync grazing your palm and digits, strongly praying that Timothy won't leak your very presence in front of the former sleazy nightclub singer or on the contrary, the holy woman finding on her own that her boss wasn't all alone at all.

"Hi Timothy! How are ya feeling today?" Inclining an emotionally dark, thick eyebrow in fleetly deft motion, a soar lump bubbled jubilantly into Timothy's masculinely appealing, bulging Adam's apple. "Much better?"

"I'm doing fine actually. You don't need to be that deadly concerned about me, Jude!"

"Yar behaviour is strangely questionable lately," Folding dramatically cold-blooded her satinly lean, femininely potent arms across her chest, a perky motion of quirk of an eyebrow objectef each pattern of mirth to decorate her very facial features, grimacing peculiarly the expressional sanctum. "And I really don't like that." In the interim, the British aristocrat maneuvred his throat to object its emotional plea and consequently swigging begrudgingly the soar lump, constricting his throat muscles nonetheless.

"Jude, I'm not hiding anything!"

"Of course, you're! What happened with that Y/N kid?"

"I'm afraid to confess that you've lost your way," The haphazardness of the dramatic ambience, suffocating the pairing initially caught you off guard when the austerely cold-hearted highlight of the holy priest's dramatic pause plummeted down the cliffhanger's chances of amusement for the Bostonian, whose silky arms dropped in defeat and separated from the body language's real indication process. "Unfortunately!"

"W-What are ya saying, Timothy?" Hopelessness and helplessness cusped kindheartedly, thus predominating in the sheer speechlessness and overwhelmedness, painting with its barren nuances the Bostonian's face that didn't possess any modicum of uniqueness to detect the genuine face of panic. The bittersweet race of her heart constricted in a grated Pandora Box, where the escape's chances were utmost minimal in a handful of conditions. Acknowledging the genuine motives behind its notion of what Timothy opted to explain to her and thereafter within the perpetual progress of acknowledging the stark, ugly truth behind the notion of his authoritative caution. "I-I" ve lost my way."A frustrated gasp joined her ribcage, thus smacking to bedaub with the back of her elvish hand the bountiful layer of brightly sticky perspiration, coating marvelously her forehead after dragging upward her habit for a split second and managing to readjust its fixed position at last.

Even though it has been less than a minute since the both members of the clergy traded words in a heated discussion, stilling your paradoxally unforgivable fear of exposure in front of the blonde, in fact, you were the little secret of the ambitious Monsignor, your flimsy heart unavoidably clenched in your chest, pinching shut your eyelids for awhile to assimilate and reconsider the absolute reality.

"It's true! Not only the movie night a few days ago with your worrying absence in your office which lead to the disappearance of a few patients and the alcohol taking a toll on you," Shaking his head, attempting to demonstrate his real concerns about the recent condition of the older woman even though he didn't want to believe his rara avis would be capable of such disgraceful disappointment for him, but also for their and the mental institution's reputation in general. "But also saying such baloney that Dr. Arden is a Nazi war criminal."

"First and foremost, ya have to take a look at the souvenirs' parcel which Dr. Arden possesses actually," Series of stammers, jumpcutting to fleet doldrums suffocating the atmosphere for awhile commenced to arouse beehive of spectacular doubts. "Second I told ya about that patient under the name Anne Frank that she was in Auschwitz with him and how his real name isn't actually Dr. Arthur Arden!" Shaking continuously her head, whereas her orthodoxally clean, smooth fingertips manifested to knead gingerly her temple, in order to refrain the early symptoms of nausea and migraine at the thought of the profusion of overwhelmedness over the Nazi war criminal that was the main doctor of science in the nefarious mental institution. Even though the British compatriot somehow fought with his incredulous side, trying its best to dominate consciously and mindly, anyway he didn't peel a single word during his right hand's logical, profound monologue about the distressful dilemma with Briarcliff's main doctor that's crucially responsible for the disappearance of galore of innocent lunatics and their mutilated, inhumanely tortured conditions due to its aftermaths of his sadistically cold-hearted experiments performed on its utterly focused targets.

"Then what's his name?" A heavy, rusty sigh flushed the younger gentleman's tiny, vulnerable nostrils in no time, cradling gently, creamily his temple into his fingers' scoop, agreeably attempting to demonstrate his diplomatically rational side in its pale, starkly realistic illumination.

"Hans Grupper!" Another reluctant stutter gingerly sailed out of her oral caverns after conjugating the foreign real name of the nefarious doctor of science. "He isn't a man of God. He is the actual evil!"

"I strongly promise to take care of him and granting him the abolishment of his position as soon as possible."

"Y-Ya believe me?"

"I do!" The appealingly huskiness and profoundness punctured the brief reply of the younger gentleman, managing a docile, modest nod in solemn agreement after a persistent clash with belief's ambiguous dilemma, whirling and twirling in his hurricane of thoughts. "You don't have to be worried, Sister!" All of a sudden, he maneuvred his mammoth, smoothly marbled hand to paw her dimly silken femininely delicate shoulder, softly massaging beneath his delicate digits the rigidly shapeless wool fabric, admiring the Bostonian's pure femininity.

"I'm not worried at all," Raising an arch cheerfully of his dark, kinkily thick eyebrow, Timothy unloaded a sharp exhale at the top of his fragile lungs at Judy's words, demonstrating effortless relief, vigorously coursing through his veins and muscles. "Any longer, Timothy! Hopefully he earns what he truly deserves."

"Excellent!" Docilely humble bobbing his head once again, the haphazardness of another sharp exhale didn't taunt any muscle to quiver in sheer amusement as Timothy's passionate covet to conclude the dialogue with the former licentious nightclub singer. Tiresome blink apt to choir its tandem of his smoky quartz optics, brassly glittering its discoloured pattern, texturing his indiscernible pitch-black pupils. “I didn’t mean to be brash, Sister, but I’m somehow busy right now. We may take care of that serious business with that incredibly suspicious doctor in a jiff.”

“It’s alright, Timothy! Take yar time!”

“Anyway thank you for informing me about Dr. Arden! Speak to God and we’ll fix the mess with him later in Briarcliff.” After swapping humbly diligent bows of their heads, subsequently the room’s door slammed shut when the older lady retired to the chapel’s grandiosely magnificent, lively yard to join the visitors. “Phew! That was pretty close Jude to get you in trouble.”

“I know so far she seems to doubt your behavior lately.” The suddenness of your interaction to the hardwood table and seating back on your old seat also escorted an additional participant to ghost its soothingly gracious presence to numb the remorseless emptiness and patchy hollow. Timothy despised from the bottom of his heart contemplated the bleakly ebony cloak, mantling wonderfully your petite frame with sheer barren despondence and desolated emptiness. He despised the loneliness ghosting your very presence. He despised even the people that pretend to be your entertainingly company, hardly could be interpreted with their unthinkable nickname, labeled gracefully onto them.

“It’s true, but it’s not your fault at all!” Soothingly melodious hum, whereas clumsily trembling his lower naturally baby-pinkish, plumpish wine-stained lip. “Y/N, do you regret the kiss?” Meanwhile, registering to crook your youthfully creamy, spidery fingers around the glass of unfinished, dimly stained communion wine, dawdling its idly mischievous dance and tipping aggressively your fingertips against the glass material, reproducing series of somber whispers.

“Not at all!” Heavy sigh remarkably jettison its refreshing oxygen, coursing through your wee, flexible nostrils, whereas a heartwarming, superb heat wobbled to zap the pit of your stomach with welcoming, precious warmness, bearing a semblance of a sunny rattlesnake suffocating your organs at the thought of your very first kiss you shared with the aspiring Monsignor and being his very first prey of its steamily promising kiss, succumbing you into a small bubble of your own sanctum with your worldviews, creativity and pearly dreams. “Why I’ve to regret it? You’ve been always so kind and open-minded to me.” Shaking your head in additional disagreement to the posed question which you once earned and then deliver your straightforward vouch as rational as possible, meantime, paradoxal paroxysm urged exceedingly glacial to shrug your delicate shoulders, scarcely sensing the potent pangs of the conscience of bestowing a devotional man of the cloth with seductively sultry, memorable kiss, spellbinding bewitchingly specific the luxurious collection of memories you may recall from your first romantic experience ever though its brief endurance eventually.

“I’m doubtlessly pleased to hear it, Y/N! I also don’t regret you’re the first ever woman I’ve ever kissed in my whole life.” Then your elvish viciously bloodthirsty for its dark red liquor to savor its uniquely scrumptious, fiendishly insatiable flavor, richly lacing your tongue and oral caverns, you lifted up the glass of dark red liquor to gulp a handful of tiny sips, seething your flimsy throat. Moreover, you didn’t have any intentions of prying about his personal business with Jude in Briarcliff about the Nazi war criminal rooming your ears after unintentionally eavesdropping and witnessing their whole rationally medley of formal and informal dialogue they traded within a few minutes only. You weren’t those kind of individuals whose peculiarly crucial business was prying into your beloved’ personal issues and dilemmas even if they weren’t personal at all and characterizing their embodiment of blamelessly discreet, deserving way less audience to acknowledge behind its real context. “My older brothers John and Adam have already dated a few girls unlike me.”

“Come on! A stroke of luck got them earlier, you know!”

“I know!”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _Later that Day_ \---

Within a several hours the daylight’s daily, monotonous episode slowly but surely bled into the nocturnal episode with its majestically expressive, artistically dark shades of the night, painting with variety of dark shades the nocturnal illustration.

The church special event promisingly played out with the series of games that anticipated not only the members of the church that were the main hosts, but also its visitors. Starkly childish euphoria vehemently pulsed through the visitors and the pious members of the clergy’s lungs and organs, hammering their high-spirited humor ethereally, bountifully.

As soon as the church event ended and you went back at work in the cafeteria to serve the customers and fulfill diligently your duties, at the moment the ambitious Monsignor and his right hand were already occupying the dilapidating, old mental institution.

In the interim, the senior doctor of science has already accepted abundance of visitors in his austerely furnished and unwelcomingly icy, prophet of doom ambience fogging the darkest, the most bleakly denuded outskirts of his personal territory. Even though his leisure seldom graced him with the opportunity to water his flowers even seed a handful of new seeds in the soil-clad pots even smartly cleaning and keeping its orthodox, pristine hygiene of his laboratory to glimmer unblemished the glossiness of proper healthiness, lacing the brick walls and each ounce of the furnitures.

Lowly droning a tunefully nonchalant, idle tune jingling reassuringly solitude ballad pitching his austere office whilst his masculinely aged, frail fingers grasped the water can and managing to water a couple of dry-soiled-clad pots of plants until the serenely dancing hush was interrupted by a handful of door wallops, scraping with balled fists the wooden material and barely succumbing with apprehension the senior doctor, dumping the water can aside.

Playfully rueful, wry smirk tugged at his chapped, nude pink lips.

“Dr. Arden, it’s urgent! May we come?” The infernally profound, husky undertones, chanting its inquiring ode of Timothy iron-willedly urged the older gentleman to welcome his forthcoming visitors, whereas the blonde accompanied him to their worst foe’s lair after discussing exceedingly professional the dilemma with the Nazi war criminal and calling the authorities to arrest him for his villainously almost impossibly unforgivable crimes, subsequently paging up his rich criminal history due to his possession of two home lands.

“Needless to ask, Monsignor! Come in!” Within a couple of seconds, consequently the notoriously squeaky hardwood, old door swung broadly opened at the prospect of the hallowed pairing coupling together to abolish maliciously the senior doctor of science. “It’s good to see you today especially at such unpredictable part of the day! Huh?” Lingering his villainous smirk, permeating past his chapped mouth, Arthur maneuvered his rotund sapphire blue orbs at the pairing, spearing their purely contrasting scintillating glares, tattooed on their faces. The sheer, wry sarcasm and politeness puncturing Arthur’s rhetorical utterance scarcely ceased to flabbergast either of the business partners.

“How would you like to explain to us, Dr. Arden?” Shortly after Timothy and Jude managed to step inside the uninvitingly hostile site as Timothy slammed ruthlessly the parcel with nefariously ominous souvenirs and illegally explicit pornographic Polaroid photographs refilling its uniquely nefarious paraphernalia, meanwhile, the former sleazy nightclub singer ushered her leanly silky arms to fold across her healthily bony chest, transfixing her sorely painful glare on the much taller figure participating recklessly into their company.

“What’s supposed to mean all this? Where did you find the parcel?” Diabolically relentless grin darkened the religious holy woman’s mouth, curving the balefully exposed pearls to apt to ornate extraordinarily her jaw, speaking emotions behind her stark face after pushing ruthlessly the ominously squeaky door to shut and close its offered space of freedom, cusping the abysmally grim hallway and the site.

“Do not ask the questions, because we’re the ones we’re presumed to pose them, okay?” Balefully authoritative punctuation sharpened the austere reprimand of the nun, narrowing her hazelish-brown huge, expressively roundish embers at her worst foe’s heavy-wrinkled, alabaster complexion, igniting its very coals of her ablaze adrenaline and frustration, waltzing altogether in its diabolical lunar optics shortly before retreating to his laboratory to collect piece of evidence with her observations about his inhumanely sadistic experiments on the wretched souls.

“T-That’s a conspiracy against me.” Sheepish gasp elaborated atop his Adam’s apple, chattering his sharp, mapped with hoary scruffiness jaw line, whereas manifesting his neatly trimmed, small fingernails to reach for his bald scalp to scrap its milky flesh, furrowing his eyebrows and narrowing his grimace at the antagonistic targets per a couple of seconds. “I’m completely sure that insane young lady that claims to be Anne Frank bamboozled you with things about me that I’ll eat my hat.”

“It’s not just an insane young lady, doctor! It’s high time for yar nemesis after not only taking an ace look at the parcel’s possessions,” Hesitantly retiring to interact to the larger frame, ushering him to glimpse ardently at the parcel’s paraphernalia with heinously illegal goods, the explicitly blood-curdling vista of the outlaw taken photographs of women without their consent and Nazi souvenirs bulked Arthur’s pools of deep ocean blue, swallowing hard, whereas the British compatriot’s virginally potent, milky fingers steadily crooked around the paradoxally mystic bonnet. “Ya see what we’ve got there? Huh?” Sheerly flawless sarcasm apt to adapt to mastery dripped sloppily from Judy’s tongue tip, shooting a quick, cautious glance at her rival’s thickly mantled in guiltless mask parchment complexion, lingering her authentically woeful, vile smirk, glinting its brightest nuances along with Timothy’s. “Nazi souvenirs! Illegal photographs of women without their consent! Raping a hired prostitute and mutilating Shelley even not bothering to abandon her in the woods. What the hell were ya thinking?” A heavy, jaded sigh flushed her nostrils to measure her outstandingly energetic patience, welling into her veins as Timothy’s blood boiled frequently, outrageously irritated. “That ya could get away somehow with yar filthy, unforgivably unspeakable crimes?”

“Let’s call it a day if you’re thinking Shelley deserves a second chance for her whorish behavior! She’s always getting in trouble for either stealing from the bakery or seducing one of the orderlies.”

Within a handful of minutes the unnatural telekinetic power of the possessed priest hexed the older gentleman to escort them to his icily eerie laboratory to examine warily each secretively tactful detail depicting the landscape of the sorrow, torture and demise, thereafter the trio retired back to the office and the police sirens’ ode pitched gruesomely, speaking volumes for Arthur. Not only the rest of his life or rather the final apocalyptical years of his bland life would be spent behind the jail bars for his heinously unimaginable deeds even for his fake identity, further an opulent medley of fury and frustration unconditionally suffocated him slowly but surely, scarcely pondering certainly what kind of sentiment was fierily dominating at the moment. Controversial concoction brewed and cooked inside his very cells and vortex of thoughts.

“They’re coming for you, Arthur Arden! Be prepared!”

A few minutes later after the eagerly playing on loop, bearing a semblance of hair-rising broken record on a vinyl recorder the police sirens incessantly droned the background, a handful of police officers set a foot inside the dilapidating, old asylum to arrest the Nazi war criminal. Shortly before his celestially precious liberty was unholy deprived from his both bare hands, the last things he could recall and behold with his own irises was the betrayal of the aspiring Monsignor in the company of his rara avis. The jail bars were his last resort and invisibly calculating the divinely golden remaining time until his actual demise of natural causes. Even witnessing the childishly panicked facial expression, cracking upon the juvenile sister of the church Mary Eunice was an inevitable disaster, transmuting into a memorable heartache and betrayal for her immobility to rescue him from the vicious claws of the law that were headstrongly dragging his handcuffed-wrist-clad large frame to outdoors and eventually the vehicle in the custody.


	19. Thanksgiving Woes

\--- ***** **\---

\-- _A Few Weeks Later or So _\---  
\--- _26th of November, 1964_ \---

The seasonal progress became a victim to the eagerly anticipating winter with its relentless inklings of chilly climate and the forthcoming profusely delightful snowfall. Thanksgiving slowly but surely bled into the calendar's remark and corresponding to the current day.

Despite the circumstances of Thanskgiving and corresponding to the absolute reality of the orthodox traditions of Thanskgiving, Timothy wasn't getting along with his family and the sole person whom he could count on somehow was you and somewhat Judy. Moreover, Thanksgiving's orthodox traditions weren't objecting your actual requirements to be parallel at all. You didn't have any family to remark the traditional American holiday with anybody else except your friends Barb, Frederic and Dana.

As the hours of the wee morning unceasingly delightful bled into the sunrise's twilight and the late autumn gigantic, roundish gilt sun climbing insistingly, dully the palish horizon as its profoundly long, mirthfully elastic sunrays beamingly filtered the living beings and the esthetically lavish late autumn prospect, in the meanwhile, the pious sister of the church and the ambitious Monsignor' figures occupied the austerely atmosphere-clad office of Judy and discussing formally professional their plans for the patients' supplements along with the staff members' earnings and the extraordinarily merry benefits the staff members numbered as security guards, orderlies and nuns would earn beneficially.

It has been a few weeks after the ill-famed Nazi war criminal's arrest and the trial's foreshadowed sequel was potently anticipated by the top witnesses like Judy, Timothy and Mary Eunice as plaintiffs to object the senior doctor of science's sheer innocence. Furthermore, the sheer upsetness despondently contagious crawling icily in the pit of the juvenile woman of the cloth's stomach was indisputably unimaginable in her case. The rich medley of unconditional heartbreak, misery, bewilderment and brillant betrayal blended its own cauldron of toxic liquid boiling and cooking inside her very emotions and the depths of her nubile muscles and frail bones.

What the juvenile woman of the cloth could barely even put a finger on realizing that her once favorite doctor that pearly cherished her pure, childlike innocence, his actual capability of committing the real epitome of heinously unforgivable, paging up his rich criminal history. The genuine notion of her vividly childlike naivety to unmask his heinously hair-rising character she has never been able to get to know or at least catch a bold glimpse of somberly contrasted the Bostonian's brilliant intelligence and her lavish swarm of doubts, fluttering in the form of ferociously howling beehive of bees, buzzing lowly incessantly and composing their ode.

Jude and Timothy really abhorred with each ounce of their very beings to behold their ideal daughter model was beyond physically and emotionally agonized even severely afflicted with heartache due to the unmasked real identity of Arthur Arden. Last but not least, the young blonde was roughly struggling to embrace with open arms the absolute reality.

"What are yar thoughts on the bonus benefits of the staff members such as decreasing their work time today, in order to spend more time with," A sharp exhale dramatically cold-blooded pause seared the older lady's berry-coloured, wet tongue whilst readjusting her gravely strict seating posture on her hardwood bureau and squinting up her hazelish-brown bijous at the recent visitor. An eerie flat line decorated her porcelain, elderly youthful complexion. "Their families, Monsignor?" Even though the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer's dotingness on the concept of releasing the asylum staff much earlier to spend their bonus time with their families was indisputably potent. Little did she know if her boss is going to solemnly approve her suggestion.

"I think that would be a fairly good idea for the staff members to spend more time with their families on Thanksgiving since it makes great sense what kind of an autumn holiday it's actually!" In the interval, manifesting to bob his head in solemn agreement to reaffirm categorically his own outstanding position, the British aristocrat's manipulative motions of his tongue to greedily, idly lick his upper and lower cherub, pale-pinkish lips performed on reflex. "But there are some staff members like orderlies or security guards that don't have families on Thanksgiving."

"Well, they also deserve some break from the arduous work which Briarcliff grants them regularly." Another heavy sigh unloaded her fragile ribcage whilst her weathered, spidery alabaster fingers clumsily, childishly perky toyed with her discarded pair of eyeglasses dumped aside on the bureau, a weak, optimistically hospitable smile blooming upon her mouth. "Don't ya think it's truly deserved, Timothy?" Switching the formal to informal address towards the younger gentleman dimly caught him off guard shortly after he shot a fleetly nimble glance at the wooden-framed photograph of the head nun of the old, nefariously grandiosen mental hospital posing with the holy priest after delivering a speech during their visit in the local churches of Boston a year ago.

"I think that is supposed to be for fair agreement, however," The haphazardness of the starkly bleak distraction indicating Timothy's current soberness, aroused mild bewilderment in the blonde whose hazelish-brown bijous opted to examine in a scrutiny every discreet detail behind his mannerism and body language. His demeanor has been questionable for almost a straight month without even daring to take the very first steps to arrange his exorcism or rescue his brittle, one of a kind soul of the unbelievably fiendish corruption slowly but surly darkening his true identity and unmasking the malicious intentions of the devilish lord to reign over his motives and dreams even seeding the wighty spawns of impulsive commands to dominate his muscles and cells. "However, the question is how many of those staff members really deserve break from their hardwork to be responsible for the patients' care?"

"Timothy, that's quite controversial question, but since it's a national holiday," Meanwhile, the British compatriot managed to approach the tall chest of drawers' furniture and transfix his smoky quartz cabochons on the year old Polaroid photograph which it spoke emotions at first sight. The fantastic brilliance shimmering past his big, roundish smoky quartz cabochons mildly seared his lower eyelids with inescapable rivulets of crystalline twin fat tears drenching, consequently trickling sluggishly downward at the homesickening memories he collected mindly through the abundance of vagons railing through his train of thoughts and gearing the vividly explicit, inevitable flashbacks, jumpcutting to fog his optics. "They sincerely deserve their labour to be preciously treasured and their present to be in the form of taking break, because it's not easy to take care of bunch of loonies that aren't a child's play."

Even though the members of the church had sometimes somewhat strong disagreements and weak points to prove their passionate discords on certain issues, anyway the former sleazy nightclub singer sincerely treasures each second and each great deal of effort the staff members of the mental institution they have spent with and implied on criminally insane lunatics that are their essentially difficult task to accomplish as part of their daily hectic schedules. The physical and mental stamina to confront even get them in the right track the nobodies that weren’t part of the general population's crystalline soberness and far cry from guiltlessly harmlessness, couldn't be regenerated after the shifts they were forced to take to look after the inmates.

Notwithstanding their stamina's exact stability, their diligently insisting duties to fulfil divinely pleasing the head nun of the mental hospital and the ambitious Monsignor' requirements severely, rapidly drained each ounce of the security guards ans sanitarians' functioning muscles in choir and fraying gearing cells to reproduce their commands and thoughts.

"Jude, Thanskgiving has nothing to do with Christmas or Easter!"

"It has to do! Since Thanskgiving is parallel to Christmas, Easter and many other holidays we consider genuinely special to be celebrated with their families," Manifesting to spread broadly, authoritatively her petite, marbled hands to indicate her current stance of defeatism, afterwards a bittersweet lump hypodermically seethed furiously her feminine Adam's apple to clash with her boss's stubbornness, whereas shifting her attention to his stark distraction. The oak wood framed Polaroid photograph of the last year.

Despite the circumstances and the bare felicity that might be candidly readable all across the staff members of Briarcliff to go back at their homes to cook, get ready for Thanksgiving and sit on the table to eat, drink and spill shenanigans conveyed the low-spirited homesickening message to the Bostonian.

Having no family for a handful of decades even somebody to love and cherish her very being with each ounce of their flimsy hearts frankly blood curdlingly remorseless tore off Judy's heart on thousand of invincibly frail, glassy pieces. No husband to dedicate her stark, ethereally timeless loyalty, unconditional love and murderous time and warmness to snuggle into his strong, callousedly doting arms where her security is doubtlessly guaranteed. No children to teach them, unconditionally love them from the bottom of her frail heart and behold their adorable faces with embroidered their crossbred facial features, inherited of their outstandingly glamorous creators. No remaining relatives or any other member of the inner circle to share galore of interesting and bland shenanigans such as her exquisitely sugar-coated moments and woes.

"Ya okay, Timothy?" The rabidly rapid, unexplainably awkward pause settling peacefully in the austere site intensified the megawatt heart pulsations of the devotional holy woman whumping desperately into her ribcage when the younger man yanked gingerly, surreptitiously the wooden framed photo to survey in a scrutiny the Polaroid, dark illustration of the photographical memorable masterpiece. The sparkling, broadly permeated smiles across their mouths sheening their scintillating glossiness, coupled with the utter focus of their eyes towards the camera.

"I am fine." Shaking recurringly his head to sort his mind rationally, thus his pale-pinkish lips registered to thoughtfully sly purse to think more logically rational, furrowing his dark, masculinely thick eyebrows and darting fleetly deft his cinnamon brown embers to the former licentious jazz nightclub singer for a split second to not utterly arouse her ultimately emphatic, painful wariness, acutely sketching her dainty, delicate facial attributes. "Everything is fine, Jude! You aren't supposed to be worried for me at all, rare bird!"

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the both pious members of the clergy’s worldviews on the national holiday Thanksgiving distressed the British compatriot due to the notion and its history dating a couple of centuries ago even congregating a huge thrill of nausea sugarcoated in unsacred disgust and enveloped exquisitely smart with an achromatic lividness. The extravagant miscellany of ferocious lividness and nauseous disgust boiled its amplifying adrenaline to assimilate mindly the history behind the national autumn holiday and he could scarcely find any sense in its celebration annually on the last Thursday of November, although his two home lands situated in the other part of the world and nowadays in Boston.

“Ya think Thanksgiving isn’t a special holiday and those staff members who worked their asses off to keep the loonies out of troubles or at least supplied with whatever they’re needed,” Fashioning into balled fist her fidgety hand to grapple firmly her conservatively wool, traditionally dark habit’s hem to stimulate her adrenaline and dim exasperation overally painting her facial attributes elegantly, grimly. “They’re celebrating some kind of nonsence that makes them to look like fools?”

“I didn’t say they look foolish, Jude! This holiday is some kind of baloney, howsoever, it’s celebrated anyway!” In the meanwhile, the devotional man of the cloth ushered his colossal, monstrously creamy hands to leave aloof the wooden-framed photograph on top of the hardwood furniture and brassly citrine shades inkling to glowingly shimmer into his coffee brown cabochons, whereas his front ivory, firm teeth clamped his lower lip’s raw spot to be gnawed for a several seconds to regain his logically witty thoughts constructing its imminent utterance to confront somehow slyly the holy woman. “The staff members deserve break, of course, because they’re like every one of us. They have families, children and more important stuff to do out of those dully lifeless walls. They have other critically more utmost issues which are part of their lives.”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _Later that Day_ \---

Once you finished your shift in the cafeteria to benevolently, professionally lukewarm to serve the clients your kindness, regardless their bitter whismicalness, thereafter you paid visit to Dana’s home where Thanksgiving is going to be situated between you, Barb, Frederic and Dana, the hostess, herself.

At your arrival, you’re bountifully pleased to be embraced by the radiantly vibrant, divinely gilt vista of richly prepared dining table with a couple of plates for the guests, salads, bottle of luxuriously scrumptious red wine and monumental plate of freshly roasted turkey in the middle of the grandiose dining table.

For your own surprise, Dana’s parents rather planned to celebrate Thanksgiving in Malibu due to the fantastically balmy weather in late autumn though their monstrously altruistic decision to grant their prosperous daughter to celebrate it with her friends on their own once in her life time.

Spending a half an hour in nonchalant ruckus of sea of discussions and eventual discords along with eating and drinking blatantly and enjoyably, the celebration was vibrantly promising and balmy. Opulent of interests and heat prominently intensified the colloquys you swapped mutually with one another.

“I was thinking we can one day go on a trip to Malibu or Nashville to relax for awhile.” The prominently friendly suggestion reminded the female trio we deserved a remarkably refreshing trip for a couple of days as its owner was Frederic, whose masculinely meaty, youthfully deft fingers toyed featherly-soft with the glass of his scarlet liquor, pooling the surface. “I’m just sick and tired of that old boring Boston with its crappy weather and the snow we have even in March and April.”

“Frederic!” The suddenness of the austerely sharpness puncturing the German-Canadian compatriot’s reprimand, gracious reminder about Frederic’s blatant impulse of permitting fluently his mouth’s cataract of constructed vowels and syllables in the form of utterances to overflow strong language which wasn’t pearly appreciated by the strict hostess. Squinting up her glaring, scintillatingly ablaze azure blue optics at the young man who was sharing a seat alongside her, whilst balefully mild baring her stunningly ivory, majestic teeth to alter her stance rapidly. “Watch your mouth before I hear another sort of baloney which is an actual synonym of crappy.”

“At least, I genuinely like his idea to have trip to Malibu or Nashville.” The Mexican’s cusp of optimism and realism graciously spotlighted her solemn approval of the idea. “Don’t you like the idea, Dana?” An optimistically vibrant, childlike grin parted Barb’s lips into a wide O.

“I like it, Barb! It’s undeniably amazing, but I won’t tolerate his blatantness to ruin it.” Meantime, your spidery pristine, fresh fingers gingerly waltzed its dance around your silverware fork and pronging categorically a mouthful of its numerous bite of the national holiday’s dish while being all ears to your friends’ colloquy.

“He’s just Frederic! Embrace with open arms the fact he can be either a clown or a tree, however, he’s still our dear friend!” At the moment, the juvenile Mexican compatriot manifested to snake her satin arm around your dainty shoulder which initially startled you until you mustered its kindheartedly warm, familiar touch contagiously mapping your figure, scarcely breaking Barb’s facial expression into ominous grimace.

The haphazardness of the front door’s ding caught off guard rabidly rapid the horde of young adults along with you as the heart pulsations megawattly accelerated in your chest and gracefully munching the perpetually atomistic food chunks, battering your wet, strawberry-coloured tongue without choking in a jiff.

“Holy shit!” Composing a humdrum ballad of flabbergasted cuss pitching the background for your own surprise the sheer glimpse at the redhead’s abrupt unpredictable usage of villainous expletive slipped from her wine-stained naturally nude pink, plumpish lips.

“Who it could be, Dana?” During the fiery turmoil, the juvenile gentleman registered to lift up his glass of scarlet liquor to swig a handful of tiny, welcoming sips to hydrate his organs and oral caverns shortly after posing the question begging for an immediate response and shaking incessantly mellow the alcoholic beverage idly, mischievously.

“I’m guessing my parents are earlier back from Malibu or the mailman just dropped a new message again.” Then the redhead managed her peachy rear to lift up from her current seat and subtly sneak out of the dining room and dash exceedingly momentarily to the front door to acknowledge the very presence of the uninvited guest.


	20. In Subtle

\--- ***** **\---

"Be careful, Dana! Hopefully it's not the real Bloody face out there to collect your bones fkr his Thanksgiving culinary!" When the ginger's very presence managed to be out of your sights, subsequently the medley of your wine and meal-stained greased lips manifested to curve into the sarcastic scoff and the ocean of pensively prudent embers igniting their very flames to kindle you instantly.

"Good advice until that psychotic bastard doesn't make her kicking the bucket!" The haphazardness of the young man's wine-stained chapped, cherub lips curled in his recently crafted utterance after the vowels and syllables awkwardly lurched backward and forward on his berry-coloured, wet tongue. His meaty, masculinely delicate fingers danced around his partly pooling crimson insatiable liquor, lingering his optimistically childish, vibrant grin parting his lips in a wide O.

"I'm genuinely scared for Dana there might be a psycho on the run that is notorious for his crimes, performed on such," A cold-bloodedly heavy, distressfully rusty sigh jointed the Mexican compatriot's lungs, narrowing her exquisitely dark jewels at the hall, linked with the dining room and the kitchen for her own luck. She would have better certainly crystal view of the uninvited guest that was unceasingly spoiling their Thanksgiving celebration and enforcing violently the hostess, herself, to not even seat for awhile and share her valuably celestial, meaningful time with the people she platonically adored to the depth of her bones as long time friends.

You couldn't even put a finger on the recently awkward situation when the ginger fled the dining room to check on the front door the owner of the livid perturbation in the wee hours of the evening when the majority of the general populate were presumed to get back at their homes after their long and abysmally tiresome working hours to be ebbed off and subsequently vibrantly compensated with their families and friends.

Even though the German-Canadian compatriot's disappearance for awhile which may seem woefully innocent at first sight, anyway the scorching compound of ablaze disquietude and starkly numb coursed deftly through your veins and muscles. Of course, you would sacrifice its sheerly pointless segment of the elapsing time to discover the unknown visitor whose intentions would variate between malicious and benevolent! It wouldn't hurt to lift up your rear from your seat unless the exceedingly amplification of your adrenaline chimed you as well.

Anyway your curiosity didn't megawatt equated to the nosey journalists and the young children. 

Long steps from the dining room to the imminent destination which was literally advancing in turtle's pace, Dana's femininely placid, resiliently silent footsteps whispering subtly against the luxuriously carpeted flooring until the hostess's elvish, marbled hand ushered to lower to the keyhole, in order to turn it with her bony fingers and subsequently the front door click opened consensually with pressing the doorknob. In a thoughtless moment after unlocking the door, the front door's sufficient broadness allowed with its angelically big scale of space the wealthy young lady to be embraced by the prospect of the ambitious Monsignor maintaining an adequate proximity gauged in a couple of inches.

The broadness of his celestially friendly, sympathetic smile, gingerly permeated past his mouth, his huge, roundishly expressive chocolate brown bijous shimmering its youthful glossiness, alight at the very thought of you after counting on his diabolical crystal intelligence to leak your current location, barely startled the redhead.

A prim, vague smile tugged at her mouth, managing to survey in a scrutiny in the corner of her lapis lazuli eye the tall, foreign figure beside her. Just a mere clergyman, who traded orthodox traits and characteristics like the other men, whose potently passionate, solemn dedication was namely to the church. The clergymen were presupposed to be harmless or at least the unholy wicked inkling of heinous intentions not eerily escorting them.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Monsignor!" The sole vowels and syllables to conjugate nimbly its utterance haul the awkwardness away from its territory didn't cease to amaze the juvenile lady's interaction with Timothy. Furthermore, they have never traded a personal encounter or interactions, in fact, it was her initial time to share her personal interaction with him even if he is solely priest for her. Even though the juvenile lady profoundly, brilliantly fathomed her recent interaction with the British aristocrat who was villainously possessed by vile essence, the pure embarrassment was starkly inevitable and immersing the atmosphere.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Dana!" The eerily huskiness of his English lilt puncturing his kindhearted greeting towards the German-Canadian compatriot, a glacial snake crawled and wobbled in the pit of her stomach, due to the fact, Timothy has never shared any personal moments with Dana, but something was out of the orthodox borderlines. He spoke her name with venomous honeyed fluency, trickling unceasingly through the smoothness of his politeness. They didn't know each other. Timothy solely has heard of her name thanks to you.

"H-How do you know my name, Monsignor?"

"I had interactions with Y/N!" In the interim, the older gentleman's weathered, pristine fingers fidgeted distressfully and apting to choir a tandem of toying idly with flesh on flesh. The deepness of his fiendish husky voice equated to his demanding nature when it comes up to work and pursuing eagerly his ambition. "It didn't mean to be worrisome at all."

"So are you that priest whom she really likes to talk about?"

"Did she?" Inclining quizzically a perky dark, thick eyebrow, the devotional holy man registered a sharp exhale unloading his ribcage.

"Just kidding!" A gullibly childlike, fatherly-soft giggle dawdled the ginger's mouth to drip sloppily as the half-heartedness of Timothy's interfered sheepishly boyish giggle pitched the background, jingling alarming tones into Dana's petite, sensitive ears. "However, she has seriously talked interesting things about you. You are interesting and kindhearted person, I guess!" The great blend of German and Canadian lilt utmost spotlighted Dana's revelation, lingering her appropriate eye contact with him.

"That's warmly kind of you, Miss Dana!" Manipulating his head in meek, humble nod, the prim shyness playing out in the British compatriot's initial colloquy he swapped with nobody else than one of your friends wasn't discernibly noticeable at all. "I didn't mean to disturb you at all, however, send greetings to Y/N!"

"I'll, Father! Would you like to come inside to celebrate Thanksgiving so that to see each other?" A wickedly sinister, ominously villainous smirk imprinted gradually its own abstract masterpiece onto her chest with its vividly expressive, artistic ink nuances, illustrating the refrained smirk which would lukewarmly sinister leak the young woman's current humor and her intentions as well. They would be clearer than crystal. Purer than angelic innocence. Softer than lithium.

"Sure! Why not?"

"Good!" In a long minute of Dana's absence, consequently the corridor became victim of the lull of the recent visitor, accompanied by the hostess, herself. "Aren't you actually British, Father?" During the ginger's attempts to detect the older gentleman's real nationality, meantime, the inquiry caught you off guard as you choked on the another daredevil, delightful sip you managed to swig of the bordeaux liquor, lacing your teeth and tongue.

"I'm actually coming from northern London which means clear yes." The suddenness of your throat muscles to maneuvere the swigged liquor to gush down smoothly evades any issues you temporarily struggled to evade momentarily.

"That's interesting, Father! Come on! Take your seat!" When the pairing set foot in the dining room, consequently the spiritually possessed man of the cloth's very presence evolved celestially profound the twains of gems fixated on him as he seated against you. It was no surprise the British aristocrat traded his seat with nobody else than Barb and you. Even though your friends Frederic, Barb and Dana had never interacted with a clergyman, nevertheless, the bewitched spellbind of his very presence divinely emphasized their facial attributes and etching kindhearted, vague smiles at the corner of their lip.

"Good day, Father! Welcome to our club." The multi-voiced greeting which the younger man and the Mexican compatriot gingerly, presentably elaborated they squinted up their gazes at Timothy whose old-fashionedly dark, wool attires of the diocese graciously obscured his flesh, somehow they couldn't obscure entirely his mesmerizing, enchanting masculinity nonetheless.

"Just call me Timothy, Barb and Frederic!" All of a sudden, the British aristocrat readjusted continuously his seating posture occupying the cherry wood chair, furrowing his masculinely dark, thick eyebrows.

"Glad to hear it, Timothy!" A sheepish, diabolically ticklish blush tickled your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks when you bore your E/C bijous at the holy priest's cinnamon brown that imbibed your very identity in a mere ogle. "Wouldn't you like some wine?" At the moment, the redhead hasn't participated to join the others on the dining table as her German and Canadian lilt promisingly, austerely conjugated the vowels and syllables' mellifluous suggestion to the priest what he would like to drink during his stay.

"Yes, please! Just a bit less than the others."

"Just a second, Timothy!" Even when the redhead and the older man's colloquy maintained intensifyingly poetic, eyeless without shooting glances or stares, you were beyond magnified how Timothy hasn't even averted his smoky quartz big, rotund gemstones from you.

The German-Canadian compatriot managed to retrieve the bottle of wine and her pristinely dexterous, bony fingers working on removing the bottle's tap and thereafter blatantly cooing a low, bland groan of frustration that she has to retire to the kitchen to retrieve one more untouched glass.

"I'm dearly sorry! I really need to go to the kitchen for another glass. I will be right back, everybody!"

When the awkward doldrum settled in the dining room conveniently, welcomingly, throughout the long minute passing at snail's pace your pristinely youthful, perky fingers waltzed to brace your glass of fermented grape juice exquisitely pooling partly the surface and unnervingly mellow tipping and fingering the frail glass material, bedaubing your skin.

“Oh hi, Timothy! I didn’t expect you to come and celebrate with us Thanksgiving.” Due to your oblivion to greet him politely as you’re the last person in the room to gracefully bestow him with your sheer, presentable politeness, anyway it was better late than never. An awkwardly mellow, bashfully girlish giggle bubbled from your feminine Adam’s apple when he manifested to incline surreptitiously, mischievously an eyebrow, drawing its edge towards the bridge of his nose.

“I know it’s dearly celebrated that national holiday there as I didn’t want to look dumb enough to be all alone while the other American families are celebrating it,” The profoundly rusty, husky infernal accent emphasizing remarkably, graciously the possessed holy man when he registered his mammoth, ghostly pale hand to reach up for his neatly combed back chestnut hair curtaining beautifully his façade as his virginally delicate, meaty fingers fingered his small, neatly-trimmed fingernails to clapperclaw creamily, slowly but surely unnerving his scalp, whereas lingering his glowing, alight smirk to permeate across his nude pink, plump lips due to your very presence, embodying the real notion of the real motive of his stay to be warmly swaddled. “Even though I’m not greatly fond of its history and the celebration, but since I’m here, I’ve to abstain from the impossible.”

“To whine right?”

“Exactly, Y/N! I just told the same to Sister Jude and she is ruthlessly disagreeing with me even though I didn’t want to mention the actual history behind this eerily merry holiday.” Ushering his head to meekly, modestly bob in solemn agreement reaffirmed his emphatic position on the controversial topic as the hostess reentered the site with an empty, unused yet wine glass, shooting an agilely glowing glances at every guest, pronging with her acute lapis lazuli huge, expressively poetic cabochons. “Everything that delivers the relentless good vibes always has a scandalously grim history behind it.”

“I’ve to second it, Tim!” The haphazardness of the Mexican lady to participate recklessly outspoken in the colloquy, thus she registered to fashion her petite, pleasantly tanned hand flatly to smack an affable, light pat on her hip mirthfully when Dana’s absence no longer froze her guests with a glacial, patchy hollow. “But I don’t want to pressure my tongue and vocal stings to discuss that controversial topic.”

“Thank you very much, Dana! That’s so kind of you!”

“Needless to be grateful for my hospitability to the guests!” Meantime, the hostess’s fingers grasped promisingly firm, sufficiently efficient and cautious the bottle of wine to pour in his wine glass its mouth-waterringly hedonistic, photogenic sanguine liquor even though the brassly glimmering medley of cinnamon brown and topaz cabochons haven’t unhitch iron-willedly ominous from your profile. “Cheers for our recently arrived guest that deserves a warm welcome from us!” As soon as the cheers process and the ecstatic amusement vibrantly suffocated each individual with broadly, wonderfully thickly slitted oral slits past their wine-stained mouths after exchanging mild clink of their glasses mutually and sipping hedonistically imprudent of the alcoholic beverage to hydrate their oral caverns and wet, strawberry-coloured tongues, thereafter you dumped aloof your own glasses for later on.

“So isn’t that ironic your family is living there to celebrate that national holiday with them?

“They’re rather sticking to my country’s traditions, Frederic! But they have never had any intentions of moving there.” All of a sudden, the older gentleman’s orthodoxy virginal, creamy fingers crooked around his throat when he lightly choked on the recently consumed small quantity of the alcoholic beverage, widening gruesomely his gape and the speechlessness poetically gloomy, vividly sketching his facial attributes, while Frederic and you peered over your wine glasses and plates to transfix your stares, glinting your altruistic concern when the staged choke and eventual demise might befall the British compatriot.

“Is everything okay, Timothy?”

“I’m actually okay, my bird! You aren’t supposed to be concerned at all.”

In a long minute of embarrassing abstinence to not attract attention due to his humongous, devilish fear to be the divine center of attention on the celebration with spoiling with his problems, consequently the abruptness of the black out and the liquor coursing through his blood and veins relentlessly swaddled him icily as he flumped backward on the cherry wood chair, wrenching instantly shut his eyelids and biting his tongue.

“My goodness!” The suddenness of the hysterical panic harpooning bloodthirstily villainous your heart with its violent heart pulsations, hammering into your vulnerable ears, you and your friends lifted up your rears from your seats as you maintained to scarcely inch an adequate distance with the passed out body of the ambitious Monsignor. “No!”

“What are you actually doing, Y/N? He’s fricking possessed and might hurt other innocents like us.” Then the German-Canadian compatriot managed to slap faintly your hand when you opted to cup in the palm of your elvish hand Timothy’s cheek as your other friends attempted to lug the larger frame to the guests’ room and bid his wrists and ankles due to their clandestine plotted exorcism of the man of the cloth by hiring a handful of clergymen to exorcize the vile essence out of his fragile figure.

**Author's Note: I know this story perpetually arouses the interest of the others, despite Timothy's scenes are way more often than Jude's, anyway I think he's emulating to the requirements for a protagonist even though Jude is between a protagonist and a secondary character, anyway bear with me for not including your favorites immediately! Since we peaked to the 20th chapter, what are your thoughts on the book, itself? **


	21. Two Kinds of Contrasts

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _The Following Night _\---

Shortly after the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer finished her shift in the mental hospital with escorting the security guards to lock up the ocean of hysterical inmates in their austerely, poorly furnished, subsequently she retired back to her austerely atmospheric office.

It has been a couple of hours since the middle-aged lady has beheld a wee inkling of the ambitious Monsignor's silhouette even motioning anatomic muscle past her honey brown poetic depths. The last interaction with the British compatriot was staged in the common room when the ambitious Monsignor paid a visit for awhile in the old, infernally dilapidating asylum to acknowledge himself about the condition and the utmost factors constructing its crucial existence of the mental institution such as staff members, inmates, supplies and so forth.

Furthermore, the Bostonian has kindheartedly arranged another coq-au-vin dinner night for Friday night the following week. Little did she know about her boss's blackout in one of your friends' house shortly after the ominously stealthy plotted idea wavering your and your friends' thoughts to sedate Timothy to hire other men of the cloth and nuns to exorcise him easier. The medley of scenarios melding the possibility of unconditional heartache and stark distress over the British aristocrat's absence for more than the usual somehow plagued her mind and consciousness.

While stepping beside the exquisitely lacquered pulpit to recite in murmur the evening prayer and knotting her orthodoxy spidery, marbled fingers to joint her brittle knuckles and bowing faintly her head, whereas pinching shut her flimsy eyelids, the grandiose old mental hospital's dully, lifelessly hoary walls didn't elaborate modicum of further, fiendishly mischievous noises apprehending to the background in general. The security guards who worked night shift at the moment frequent ghostwrote their figures gliding smoothly, warily in the profoundly empty, dim lit corridors.

In a long minute of sheerly refreshing prayer, the abruptness of series of politely meek, feather-soft raps daubing its fashioned mammoth, masculinely veiny hand into balled fist against the woode wooden material, catching off guard the middle-aged lady and tingling alarming tones into her petite, vulnerable ears.

"Oh! Goodness!" The pure impulse of the profane language conjugate in its brief response to the door rap wrenched broadly curtained the pious sister of the church's huge, glassily roundish honey brown optics narrowing at the battered window, showering its profusely nocturnal mantle of pitch-black darkness to stream through the walls and furniture with meager opacity of palish light. Solely the dim illumination of the artificial light divinely filtering the en-suite bedroom provided Judy with sufficient scale of light to saturate profusely the site's furniture and surroundings. Her flimsy heart raced.

In the interim, the blonde retreated plainly from her en-suite bedroom and diabolically ambling up to the office door as her classy elegant jet-black chunks docilely demure whispered against the cemented flooring, manifesting her petite, marbled hands to fix her conservatively wool, rigid wimple coiffing fashionably her halo ringlet of angelically velvet old Hollywood aureate tresses. An eerie flat line blurred each vague inkling pattern of vibrant glee or venomous upsetness, glinting her elderly attractive facial attributes.

"I need some help with that freaking platter." The childishly fleet patience of the former police officer petered out , whereas his front ivory, firm teeth to nip the raw spot of his bottom pale-pinkish lip to stifle a fiendishly reluctant, breathy gasp. The platter of scrumptious pumpkin soup pooling the bowls, paired with silver untouched spoons, plates of slices of caramel cheesecakes greasing smoothly the porcelain surface and forks. What a burden pressuring Frank's arms muscles!

"Just a second!" As soon as the pious sister of the church's elvish, femininely dainty hand perched on the doorknob and twisting it, thus she stepped aside to deliver generously sufficient space to the current visitor of her office whose series of humdrum heavy footsteps muttering against the concrete floor. "Good to see ya, Frank!" The rusty hoarseness of the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer's snicker didn't vanish, tingling angelic anthems into the security guard's ears when he stepped inside presentably gracious and marching up warily the platter to the hardwood bureau to settle the entity of meals, while the office door was emphatically shut behind the very presences of the duo.

"It's always nice to see ya after finishing the dirty job with the loonies."

"I know! Happy Thanksgiving!" At the moment, the duo managed to seat against each other and share an adequate proximity and spearing each other with their potently vibrant, spellbinding gazes.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too!" The haphazardness of the healthily raspy, vibrant snickers the pairing exchanged pitched the sternly atmospheric office that was perpetually transmuted into a dining room due to the medley of vibes kipping in the site. When Judy and Frank manifested to crook their fingers deftly around their silver, unused yet spoons to spoon their first bite of the pumpkin soup and then swig greedily peckish the very chunks and healthy liquid, mischievously tickling their tongues and oral caverns, the blatant multi-voiced slurs elaborate their soup-greased mouths. "The soup is brilliant."

"I love the soup, I've to admit!"

In a long minute of savouring each dish and babbling sweetly, amiably to one another, the pairing shared abundance of interesting, common even devilishly uncommon experiences through their daily dynamic roller coaster they were riding through almost every day.

"How odd that Monsignor guy has disappeared for hours!" The teasing rhetoric retaliation of the former policeman taunted mischievously the Bostonian to narrow her hazelish-brown big, roundish embers at him, ablaze with sheer skepticism due to the British compatriot's absence for hours though prone to believe his hectic daily schedule to visit other sites where his presence was obligation.

"He has to visit other places besides Briarcliff, Frank! Do ya remember he isn't just an ordinary priest?" Scooping a second bite of the mouth-wateringing, promising evening meal, the blonde grasped even tighter the silver spoon and registering her wet, strawberry-coloured tongue uneasily greedy to moisten her soup-greased oral slit.

"I have to second it though," Shortly after muffling a healthily inward, blatant belch with his other hand fashioned into balled fist and bulging its masculine callouses flimsily spiking his fist, brittle knuckles and fingers and a huskily sarcastic, ruefully sheepish chuckle clicking the roof of his mouth. "Though he is quite suspicious with his behaviour for almost a straight month. I bet after that possessed young man's exorcism, therefore the devil found his new home."

"Are ya leaning to believe that he is genuinely possessed by an evil spirit?"

"Due to my observations, I have to believe it."

"Me either." Maneuvering a woefully solemn nod in agreement, the middle-aged woman's spidery palish fingers toyed gingerly, childlikely playful with her spoon whilst her other hand's fingers clawed featherly-soft the desk. "There is something fishy in his behaviour and in general lately. We don't see that often each other lately." A heavy, jaded sigh snorted her tiny, flexible nostrils to course its oxygen, demonstrating the Bostonian's sheer frustration of being unable to halt the vile essence that was recently inhabiting Timothy to command him to the impossible. Unceasingly slowly but surely hazarding not only his very life and remarkable reputation, but also the other living beings' outstanding lives.

Even though a month ago the failed attempts of exorcism and bashing the vile essence out of the young man’s frail skeleton not only in the company of Sister Jude, Timothy and Father Malachi, but also Dr. Thredson, subsequently after Jed passed away due to a relentless heart attack at young age, the aspiring Monsignor fainted and no longer his virtuous purity and innocence glimmered luminously its celestially glossy, aureate light to illuminate his benevolent nature. The scintillatingly grim vibes dashing each person that had close interactions with the British aristocrat urged them to assimilate and overthink rationally logical the dynamic roller coaster which the holy priest has being through for a handful of weeks especially with the catharsis of the apocalyptic saga or rather the nemesis of the purity, chastity and innocence.

In addition to the fishy demeanor ghostwriting the devotional man of the cloth’s one of a kind character, the cusping domination between a protagonist and antagonist fiercely strong-willedly inflated significantly in the past few weeks, factly, the mental and physical dilemma of sobering his thoughts and commands emanating from the devil’s sinisterly fiery impulse. At moments, the possessed holy man’s demonstration of gentlemanly politeness and hospitability somehow leaked the prim impression strucking the people that fairly know him personally. Last but not least, he’s committed homicide with suffocating Shelley after being a victim of mutiliation in Dr. Arden’s office to equate the painless, ultimate demise and sedating numbness pronging her muscles, bones and cells, suffocated in tremendously virulent affliction and agony. Solely he knew that Shelley was murdered by his own bare hands instead of allowing the severe, virulent affliction and agony heinously painful consume her anatomy. Furthermore, the British aristocrat feared of losing his pearly treasured and trustworthy people that formed his friend circle that wasn’t ginormous at all such as Mary Eunice, Jude and you mostly.

The truth eventually was articulating the lessened its frequency of interactions between the woman of the cloth and her boss, due to his tremendous, chaotic business lately which were either once daily or per a few days solely.

What it gravely distressed the middle-aged woman was the British aristocrat’s no longer interest in her as something more than a friend and business partner luminously hazed her impure thoughts that incessantly apt to tandem the choir of gearing in her rich vortex of thoughts every night and furiously functioning reverie in much different realm. Much different world. Much different vision. Contrasting realms of absolute reality and amorously majestic reverie. Antagonists and protagonists unimaginably switching roles or improvising with the luxurious imagination of the prey of the daydream.

“Well, he’s to be fairly busy lately. He’s another business to do!”

“I know, I know,” When Jude dumped the spoon in the meagerly empty bowl of pumpkin soup, thereafter her long, ghostly pale slim fingers yanked the fork and waltzing its grapple around the silver tiny entity, pronging a mouthful initial bite from the slice of caramel cheesecake and then munching continuously utmost, solemnly until it unceasingly frittered on multiple wee chunks playfully ticklish lurching on the beginning of her tongue. “I’m thinking we can call it a day off if he gets exorcised.”

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _A Few Hours Later or So_ \---

When the evening passed at snail’s pace and bled into the magnificently blood-curdling midnight, a handful of significantly prominent events occurred shortly after the British compatriot’s blackout. Your friends Frederic, Barb and Dana bidding the possessed aspiring Monsignor’s ankles and wrists, in order to not flee inevitably bloodthirsty, obscenely sinful to join the ultimate freedom after a persistently stiff-necked physical and mental dilemma. Dana and Barb attending the nigh chapel to seek a handful of clergymen’s word even their assistance to bash the vile spirit out of Timothy’s frail skeleton that leaked his Achilles’ Heel to fulfill an afflicitive damage of his very being and celestial character.

An abysmally sleepless, starless night awaited not only you and your buddies, but also Timothy along with the miniature group of holy men to perform the conjuration to eject the somberly excruciating uninvited guest tormenting unceasingly its own prey of possession.

An hour after the both older women’s dimly evaluative promise to get back in the façade, subsequently Frederic rather preferred to finish his serving along with his third glass of scrumptiously insatiable, hedonistc claret to hydrate his tongue and oral caverns, longing for its cataract of intoxicatingly pleasurable red liquor diabolically titillate yet. In the interval, you were all alone in the guests’ room to be on guard of the older gentleman, in fact, you didn’t want anybody else than your both female friends to embrace the aftermaths of the chaotic mess if the possessed man of the cloth wasn’t strictly supervised.

The scourge of contagiously sore, unthinkably unmistakable prejudices and concerns apocalyptically kept you awake even having no intentions of fleeing Dana’s property and opting to kill your time off with an intriguing book from the Classic Literature to allow the luxurious cataract of elapsing seconds and minutes to submerge the patchy hollow of your constant inertness to bore your E/C depths into the motionlessly groggy, pallid complexion of Timothy.

Meanwhile, your E/C gemstones studiously impaled ruthlessly restless the twenty-fifth page of Killing a Mockingbird’s very first book that caught your eye in first place once your stare scrolled through the initial pages and finding yourself bewitchingly, spellbindingly enamoured with the extraordinarily written composition and the ebony ink glinting its etch of each letter, each word, each sentence and each paragraph harpooning your peripheric eye.

“**Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn’t even thinking about your father, but now that I am I’ll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How’d you like some fresh poundcake to take home?” I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. “Will not. This yard’s as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right to play in it as you have.” Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: “If you stay you’ve got to do what we tell you,” Dill warned. “We-ll,” I said, “who’s so high and mighty all of a sudden?” “If you don’t say you’ll do what we tell you, we ain’t gonna tell you anything,” Dill continued. “You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?” Jem said placidly, “We are going to give a note to Boo Radley.**” The suddenness of a heavy, weary sigh abraded your fragile lungs, snorting quietly, surreptitiously the mouthful of refreshing oxygen through your wee, vulnerable nostrils, whereas your pensively pursed cherub lips chanted nonchalantly, eloquently a mellifluous low hum, megawattly trying to evade any distractions additionally.

“Y/N, I saw the car,” All of a sudden, Frederic manifested to docilely open the notoriously creaky door, taunting you to starkly furrow your eyebrows to draw to the bridge of your nose and flicking up your E/C glassy, jaded gemstones to pierce his young-lookingly parchment face momentarily whilst your pristinely dexterous fingers hooked around the book’s flimsy pages to spread broadly to your vision. “They are the priests with our girls Dana and Barb.”

“We’re supposed to get ready for the tough business with the conjuration and dealing with the demons!”

“I solemnly promise to not leave you on your on with that creepy ass demon taunting you until the girls and the priests’ arrival.” Dumping ajar opened the door idly, consequently the younger gentleman participated potently stubborn in your company as you both shared a seat on the edge of the double bed and you left shut the book.

“W-What did you say?” The profoundly husky, eerily appealing mutated divinely utmost within a few seconds, puncturing the groggy inquiry of the British aristocrat’s sudden awakeness from his brief, beauty coma emulating to a cat nap of the faint with its crucial emanation of the wine’s sedative effect.

“They’re coming for you, Timothy! We’ll make sure to keep your wits about your best and safety.” The humdrum, rowdy symphony of footsteps emanating from the first floor’s corridor pitched the background, keeping the older man’s wits about the imminent method of his spiritual salvation. Exorcism.

“You nasty liars! You trapped me in a mad monstrosity!” Elaborating series of hysterically impulsive, ferocious writhes of his anatomy’s muscles to register his protest and blatantly growling aggressively his emotional, half-heartedly cold-blooded pleas at the top of his lungs, throughout casting his scintillating brass, brash glare at you and Frederic.

“Calm down, Timothy! Please for the love of God!”

“Shut your foul mouth, you little slut!” During your attempts to soothingly comfort the older gentleman with cupping his face in the palms of your elvish, secure hands, he nipped ferociously one of your fists as you withdrew rapidly, whereas Frederic drapped a satin arm to soothe you on reflex and overwhelming panic painting your youthful, fresh facial attributes.

“Don’t listen to that nasty lying demon! He’s trying to provoke you.”


	22. Fill the Demon

\--- ***** **\---

Once the nocturnal daily episode bled into the relentless, hysterical dynamic roller coaster of the midnight, prominently painting even darker the realistically phenomenal landscape of the night, subsequently the madhouse dipped in the abysmally misty, sinisterly quiet rivulets of the doldrum. No any single soul has whispered its own ballad. Uneven, hair-risingly dim footsteps echoed through the profoundly dull, lifeless hallways' walls and concetre flooring. It felt like an unexplainable heaven. Interpreted in its sacred sanctum of heavenly tranquillity settling conveniently inside the sites which no any single wretched soul chanted its despondently rowdy, hysterical wail at the top of their lungs.

The profoundly timeless night which was rather desolated for the pairing in the austerely dim lit office of the head nun of the nefariously dilapidating, grandiose mental hospital passed at snail's pace. Frank and Jude spent a couple of hours throughout logically rational, deep colloquys that variated from business up to their personal lives and desires. Even if they haven't discussed so much the British compatriot, at least his name numbering yours were part of their colloquy that has altered its own brilliance of the pigments and filling their growling, satiable desires to discuss certain interests and topics. The duo has already concluded with their dinner dishes and dumped the platter with emptied bowls and plates with balefully subtle remnants of food chunks, pooling the surfaces.

The late November mildly lukewarm zephyr antagonistically danced and ferociously howled its rowdy echo to collide against the brick, dimly cracked walls of the exterior and the shut windows.

"I didn't mean to bring it," Series of uneven, versatile stutters sailed out of the Bostonian's tongue tip whilst moistening to provide its necessary dew of hydration after manipulating to twirl in its exact apex her wet, berry-coloured tongue to bedaub delicately, greedily her upper and lower plumpish lips. Even though myriad of unconditional discomfort and unholy shyness submerged the pit of the Bostonian's stomach to bring the same topic in front of her fewest loyal, outspoken friend, the very thought of the ambitious Monsignor's disquieting disappearance wasn't a child's play for her to bear and assimilate recurringly the patchy hollow he wasn't able to fuel rabidly rapid at all. In the interval, the security guard registered his lapis lazuli huge, rotund gems imbibing the former licentious jazz nightclub singer’s beautifully curtained with its thin veil of artificial saturation of her porcelain, elderly youthful complexion, whereas stabilising the maintainence of the eye contact they bore into afflictively diabolical, ruthlessly. "B-But it's almost midnight and the Monsignor's disappearance is quite distressful."

Notwithstanding the circumstances, factly, the former police officer has never been even slightly fond of the ambitious Monsignor, anyway he was somewhat certain after granting instinctive trust to his hurricane of thoughts and fiendishly acute, cunning intuition that either Timothy wasn't in Boston or on the contrary he was somewhere in Briarcliff, howsoever, rather referred the company of the heavenly loneliness to conveniently swaddle him.

"He might be not roaming around Boston or whoever knows!" At the moment, the middle-aged gentleman managed to crook his meaty masculinely strong fingers around his uniform's cap to be discarded recklessly on top of the cherry wood bureau and throughout grazing with his small, neatly trimmed fingernails his clammy scalp and allowing to breathe adequately after spending hours of antagonistic obligatory to not discard even a single attribute of his uniform.

"Only one God knows perhaps, Frank!" Although the elapsing hours where the both staff members had a humongous opportunity to get to know each other on much higher level and levelling out their informality abruptly as they traded with one another a diligent security guard and a pious sister of the church relationship even if he was her employee, hired a couple of years ago to suppress his melancholically rabid loss of his wife.

"Jesus!" Elaborating the breathy, hoarse mutter under his breath, the former policeman manifested to transfix his sharp gaze at the prospect of his boss yanking violently her conservatively dark woolen wimple out of her head during the relentlessly endless hours of coif until the lion mane of bewitchingly lavish, luxurious aureate curls piled up her dainty, feminine shoulders and curtaining stunningly her full, oval profile at last. The luxuriously sinful, eye-catching vista of the former licentious nightclub singer discarding the wimple on top of her bureau beside the tray and the cap of the security guard, pronged Frank’s sapphire blue big, round cabochons.

“I know, Frank!”

“Isn’t he lusting after some kind of a bimbo by letting the chips to fall where they may?” The suddenness of the widower’s words punctually builded in a rhetorical enquiry somehow dueled the blonde’s facial expression to break into an arcane grimace at the thought of her love interest not only breaking his own solemnly took vows, further trying to diminish his chances of pursuing eagerly, agitatedly his divine, golden ambition, in order to swap his current life with the past and taking into his own hands the love of his life along with the future. The heinously rebarbative thought of the devotional clergyman keeping in mind somebody much younger than Jude due to galore of reasons frigidly paralyzed the blonde’s facial attributes and spotlighted prominently the nausea swamping the pit of her stomach. The dilemma between Timothy and Frank to choose between either of them as her lover didn’t ease for a long time even after the appearance of the falsely commited patient Y/N and Timothy solemnly, surreptitiously granted Y/N the ultimate, celestial freedom you deserved the most.

“I wish I wasn’t thinking about different scenarios about his disappearance, but the question is,” When Frank’s colossal, pleasantly olive-tanned hand manipulated to rummage his outfit’s top inner pockets for two tiny, pleasantly lukewarm entities that freshly cooled his muscly, bulky torso, in order to calm his boss’s nerves and bestow her with something to indulge herself at least once in awhile after the mouth-watering miniature Thanksgiving dinner they both traded with one another. Darting subtly his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to paddle mischievously greedy his upper and lower baby-pinkish, brim lips with ineluctable dew of moisture after a handful of hours enduring its dryness thickly, generously coating the delicate skin of his oral slit. “Is he still thinking about that little slut he helped her to get her out of Briarcliff and gave her a black rose?”

In spite of the fact the duo knew one another for a few years that emulated to the approximance of two years at least, thus Frank’s closest relationship he shared with its protagonist of his life story was the Bostonian, factly, they both traded mutually so much in common even when they had somewhat discords from time to time that were compensated with their isolative character in the middle of the night when the madhouse became a victim of the lethally apocalyptic silence and the holy priest didn’t intervene essentially in their space. Their intesifyingly inevitable feelings they brewed and cooked inside their own frail skeletons every time whenever their interactions variated from brief to everlasting, the megawatt amplification of their bond and their undeniably potent chemistry melded its spellbinding hex of their unexplainable destiny. They were made for each other eventually. If Timothy could have different woman of his life even if it’s his seriously initial, subsequently Jude would spent her eternity with her employee.

“Why Y/N has to be addressed little slut, Sister?” Meanwhile, the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer maneuvered one of her thin, elegantly dark eyebrows to quizzically, gamely incline when the widower tossed amiably a can of fizzy berry liquid shortly after carding his own individual entity perched on his lap. “She did nothing wrong and she’s falsely committed. The Monsignor had the full right to grant her the freedom she truly deserves, despite her grim past.”

“I can’t call it a day off for a former drug dealer to evolve around Timothy’s holy brown eyes as if she’s the center of the world.”Then the pairing’s fingers nimbly ushered to snap opened their cans and clink the plastic wee entities shortly before swigging a handful of tiny, humbly greedy sips. “I genuinely cannot trust Y/N, Frank! She might get back to be the creature of habit about the drugs and spreading them illegally for more money rather than for keeping clean her reputation.”

“Look what, Jude!” Shaking his chilly forefinger to indicate his strong disagreement with the current Bostonian’s statement after darting his wet, hydrated tongue to sponge the sticky fizzy liquid-stained coat thickly, wonderfully luminous glittering its own luster, clicking his tongue continuously afterwards. “There are people like me for example whose old habits aren’t dying hard. I really believe she changed herself after moving there and we have to clap our hands that Y/N has changed for better and valuing the fresh start she rewarded herself from Maryland up to there.” A gruesomely thin line flourished authentically upon the pious sister of the church while dancing the brace of her spidery delicate, marbled fingers around the can. All colours of the middle-aged lady’s parchment, elderly young-looking complexion ebbed off and its chromatic tissues blanched unhealthily rapid. Outstanding incredulity in the meteoric changes contoured her femininely unique facial features. The blood’s boiling inescapably couldn’t stiffle its softening suffocation of her incredulity, factly, it took her longer than the usual to recover from the alcoholicsm. “And it’s up to the Monsignor whatever his priesty self would choose, because even if he moves on, ya can always count on me for anything. Like advices, help, comfort and so forth.”

\--- ******* \---

Shortly after Father Kellan Teagan Montgomery and Father McKenzie’s arrival while escorting Barb and Dana until they peaked up to the targeted apogee of their eventual destination to the guests’ room where the British compatriot’s wrists and ankles were bided to sinisterly attack during the conjuration, subsequently the both priests advised you and your friends to maintain more isolative proximity with the current prey of spiritual possession while accomplishing their attempts to banish the vicious, invincible demon out of the British compatriot’s frail skeleton.

Thick mantle of hard-heartedly restlessness concealed the sheer fatigue and starkly fickleness to aid one of their co-workers to not struggle with the contagious affliction of the vicious vile essence. While the brunet’s virginally long, slim fingers dangled around the widely spread covers of the hallowed book to declaim half-heartedly, nonchalantly the powerful letterpresses to diminish the chances of the vile essence to win the combat, whereas the Bostonian hunkered down past the double bed as a fistful of the rosary’s beads waltzed its brace around his tissues and transfixing his lapis lazuli jewels to imbibe the sight of the troubled holy man writhing frequently his non-verbal protests and mewling series of blatantly deep, infernally blood-curdling pleas daubing his oral tissues.

“Kiddos, better leave!” The older clergyman’s deft tongue as his bottom plumpish lip curled in the starkly authoritative, nevertheless, kindheartedly benevolent caution towards you, Barb, Frederic and Dana when the trio managed meek, childlikely modest nods of their heads shortly before retiring back to the dining room unlike you. You didn’t have any intentions of leaving the recently hired men of the cloth to deal on their own with the spiritually possessed ambitious Monsignor. “It’s for your safety, Miss Y/N L/N!” In the meantime, Kellan Teagan flicked up his ocean blue embers to prong your youthful complexion, knitting furiously fierce his dark, thick eyebrows to convey its friendly reminder with a few cautions articulated fluently in verbal and non-verbal versions.

“F-Father,” Fortunately, the soar flavor of the stutter awkwardly limping backward and forward in your oral cavern didn’t honey-mouthedly, fluently free retaliating out the authoritatively calm caution you and your friends earned just moments ago, subsequently seizing your cherub, dry lips into a pensive purse. Solely distinctive for your own eardrums. Solely distinctive for your own bittersweetness even if you didn’t want to follow obediently, diligently Father Kellan Teagan’s instructions at all. It resembled a whisper in the barrens. In the desert. In the vacuum. Unhearable for its audience that encircled you. Was it possible for the evil spirit inside the British aristocrat’s frail skeleton to detect even noises and voices emulatitng to the farer distance they traded with his larger frame? Ironically, you hoped neither of the holy men was victimized of your lull under your breath. Any syllable and vowel worth its craft to be constructed for your impending articulation of your own very thoughts bubbling up from your throat died acriminously on your tongue tip.

“Child, please leave! You don’t have to witness all that horror.” Shortly before shifting his utter attention to the Holy Bible’s pages, your facial attributes’ incredulity no longer obscured beneath its thin, translucently crystal veil and softened the sharp grain determining your facial expression’s anatomy momentarily. Father McKenzie was truly altruistically caring soul when it comes up to warning the relatives or inner circle members of the exorcism’s victims to gape flabbergastedly at the genuine epitome of the horror how the demons fiery forced their own preys to blatantly whimper couple of emotional, fiendishly profound protests at the top of their lungs.

“She better stay here to watch you suffering, you little pigs!” The suddenness of Timothy’s interference in the colloquy caught off guard the male duo as their light embers ignited its ferociously scintillating flames to drain every ounce of their possessed business partner’s ghostly pale face.

“The prayers, Father Montgomery!” The hastily salty reprimand of the younger man of the cloth laced vehemently exuberant its own infectious flavor when the older gentleman’s azure blue huge, poetically rotund bijous fixated on Timothy and clenching tighter the rosary in his grip when his heart raced.

“Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel! In the Name of the Father,”

“A te, de l’essere Principio immenso, Materia e spirito, Ragione e senso! Mentre ne’ calici, Il vin scintilla, Si’come l’anima, Ne la pupilla,” At the moment, the British aristocrat’s bottom plumpish, baby-pinkish lip curled in the scoff and the devilishly unholy, spine-chilling chuckle while reciting the unholy prayer and increasing perpetually its decibels to pitch the guests’ room background eventually. You couldn’t help but dart your E/C bijous to the battlefield of God’s messengers and your love interest. Little did you know what might be happening if your very absence ghostwrote the site where the both clergymen unceasingly fulfilled their divine quest with the salvation of an innocently unblemished soul of the one of a kind. A smugly wicked, bone-chilling smirk tugged at the corner of the aspiring Monsignor’s lip as Kellan and Alexander recited in a mumble the ruthlessly powerful, celestial prayers.


	23. Endless Path of Ordeals

\--- ***** **\---

Once the conjuration rapidly rabid progressed at snail's pace and became a victim of the medley of unholy diabolical and sacred prayers' lull pitching the guests' room, once again Father McKenzie manifested to dart his lapis lazuli big, rotund minerals to survey in a scrutiny the room, in case if there were other visitors surroundings the clergymen and their possessed colleague. After scanning perkily fleet your petite frame that boldly populated the guests' room, a straight line blurred each pattern of exceeding despondence and fiendish mirth.

It seemed that Father McKenzie's authoritative, nevertheless, politely calm caution to flee the room didn't work at all. Mild irritation roared fiercely through his muscles and bones momentarily. His lapis lazuli optics' luminous glossiness swathed with fiery mild exasperation, whilst the older man of the cloth was utterly focused on the silver-tongued, graciously resilient prayers recited in mumble and the rosary beads lingered its brace around his virginally strong, alabaster fingers.

"Didn't you hear me, Miss Y/N?" Quirking perkily his dark, masculinely thick eyebrow to articulate his fluent dim annoyance, your youthfully refreshing facial features softened momentarily. "It's for your safety to leave the room." In the meantime, you slammed your front pearly teeth to nibble the delicate skin of your bottom cherub lip recurringly prim.

"Let's play, little pigs!" The profoundly infernal bicker sailing out sloppily from the spiritually possessed ambitious Monsignor mischievously taunted the male pairing to drift their attentions to his explicitly inevitable provocation, participating in the daredevil game even when Kellan Teagan’s naturally pale-pinkish, deliciously cherub lips twisted curtly in the prayer. “You will die.” Devilishly flamboyant, self-assertively wicked snicker dripped from the ambitious Monsignor’s mouth, elaborating his wrists’ muscles to writhe at the non-verbal protest while channeling to readjust his posture into seating, despite his ankles were tightly bided. “All of you!” The profoundly husky, devilish utterance after constructing the diabocally lethal, baleful the dozens of vowels and syllables to articulate his menaces not only to the holy men, but also to the other surroundings in the room, in spite of the persistent attempts of yours to refrain from bawling your eyes off, subsequently within a few moments twin chubby crystalline tears creamily groveled on your lower eyelids in the form of tiny rivulets, whilst unable to avert your gaze from the conjuration’s explicitly realistic, wickedly authentic vista you currently contemplated through ethereally endless.

Despite the fact you’re leaning to bestow the both exorcists’ with sufficient trust to banish the vile essence out of Timothy’s frail skeleton, anyway everything wasn’t guaranteed to equate to an utter success. Even if the exorcists’ headstrongly versatile attempts to grant Timothy a second life after the vile essence alienates from his frail skeleton and bloodthirstily greedy, gaggingly rambled the expansive world’s outskirts to find his impending victim of spiritual possession, the second life’s chances cusped between minimal and average.

Nobody knew if the exorcism would be the actually last hope to bracket the angelically sacred life with the demonically unholy demise and the subsequency bashing the demise out of the aspiring Monsignor’s choice that was paged up on the final page of the book of his life.

“What if he dies before he awakes?” The whisper almost died on your dry, berry-coloured tongue, whereas manifesting to seat surreptitiously on one of the royal armchairs to recline leisurely your figure to rest as the thin stream of twin crystalline rivulets tricked down your well-carved cheeks. Galore of arcane questions behind the scenes of the conjuration swirled and twirled in your vortex of thoughts even when you’re graciously friendly cautioned to flee the site for your safety. Even if you aren’t sharing with the majority of the general population’s religiousness, at least you were pretty informed about the preys of exorcism due to the fiasco of the doctors and clergymen to save the others’ precious lives. Even if the British aristocrat hasn’t developed utterly deep relationship with you through the platonic line at least, it would break your heart once you acknowledged his actual demise and the vast frigid ball crawling like a vicious rattle snake inside your abdomen and asphyxiating the pit of your stomach and ethereally timeless numbness enveloping your frail heart. It would be heartbreaking to acknowledge somebody’s death after they did more benevolently heartwarming things for you rather than you did for them. It would be a greatly spine-chilling loss over a preciously unique one of a kind that sacrificed not only his reputation and career, but also his life to grant you the ultimate freedom and joining the general population, factly, you’re falsely committed against your will. “I pray the Lord his soul to take!” The ecclesiastically meaningful word Lord bitterly savoured on your tongue tip and bearing a semblance of the unnaturality emanating from your docilely meaningful, low-spiritedly unnerved humor settling comfy to infectiously imbuing, whilst manipulating the series of hideously thoughtful blinks of your E/C gems allowing the twin waterfall of tiny, luminous tears to dribble diligently down your profile.

In a long quarter an hour of the iron-willed attempts of Father Kellan Teagan and Father McKenzie to bash the vile spirit out of the British aristocrat’s frail skeleton after a couple of half-hearted recites in murmur prayers and perusing rowdy certain canticles from the Holy Bible to weaken posthastely the utter force of the demon’s inviolably brass, vast control over his recent prey’s contagious, apocalyptic affliction.

As soon as the British compatriot blacked out abruptly as you and the other men of the cloth’s gawks speared eagerly the process, consequently you registered to claw your jaw line with your both elvish, creamy hands, whereas your heart sunk in the hazily abysmal sea of ambiguous oblivion to the spontaneous senselessness suffocating Timothy’s muscles and facial expression. An eerie flat line permeated across his baby-pinkish, scrumptiously plumpish lips and emotionlessness manuscripting his handsome, feeble facial attributes.

“He passed out.” The sheer oblivion to Father Kellan Teagan and Father McKenzie’s your very presence ghosting reassuringly warm while you lifted up your rear subtly from the royal armchair and slowly but surely ambling up towards the king-sized bed’s footboard, whereas the linger of your knitted fingers hypodermically shielding your jaw muffled series of blatantly guttural gasps and despondent sobs.

\---** ***** \---

“No wonder why this night was eventually unbelievable!” When the former licentious jazz nightclub singer glided smoothly to escort the security guard towards her austere office’s hardwood door, an amiably sympathetic, goofy smile dawdled to fall from her porcelain, elderly youthful façade, factly, her other love interest eventually fulfilled her ultimate felicity and granted her the best Thanksgiving experience ever in her entire life. “Ya were amazing and sympathetic as always, Frank!”

“Ya aren’t obligated to thank me for anything, because I’m just being natural.” As the security guard’s orthodoxy marbled, dexterous fingers crooked around the office door’s doorknob, subsequently he didn’t avert his azure blue gems from the poetically caramel brown gems that magnified the endurement of their maintenance of stable eye contacts. Judy’s caramel brown cabochons were so profound. They were so poetic. They were so fabulous. They were doubtlessly expressive. They were elegantly exquisite. They were fashionably brusque, regardless what’s the extraordinary climate altering the cold-bloodedly ruthless anomaly in the piercing glares or the bountenously reassuring, vibrant gazes.”The dinner was promisingly amazing along with the discussions we had.”

In a long minute of resiliently embarrassing, bone-chilling doldrum pinching the thin elasticity in the proximity the duo exchanged with one another, the pious woman of the cloth darted her wet, strawberry-coloured tongue’s fat to daub smoothly her upper and lower delightfully plump lips while assimilating the entire scenario of the Thanksgiving special dinner night they exchanged with one another and the sparks of glee shimmered brightly to permeate its positive, optimistically profound vibes to brace them.

As if the time has halted promptly the pairing didn’t have any intentions of peeling off the doldrum’s embarrassment, due to the fact even the hush genuinely, invitingly cured the mystically rowdy din of purred laughters and series of confessions.

“Did your chasing rainbows with the Monsignor died out, Judy?” The haphazardness of the former police officer to snap Judy out of the uncomfortably icy hush after posing the question with silver-tongued raspiness, wry irony prominently touching the genuine notion, whereas winking gamely, mischievously at her, caught off guard the Bostonian as she shrugged her dainty, delicate shoulders due to the true nature of the amusing utterances invading the suffocation of the noises and dinnes.

“I think so.”

“C’mon, Judy! Since he’s leaning to move on,” All of a sudden, Frank threw his strongly muscly, unconditionally secure arms to brace the blonde’s upper back and drawing her into a kindheartedly tight, doting embrace as their chests synced the press along with the sychronisation of their rabidly perky heart pulses, throbbing into their ears. “Yar also capable of changing yar life for better rather than chasing rainbows for things you will eat your hat, ya know!” The hoarseness in Frank’s friendly, motivationally emboldening reminder to convey its meaningfully majestic message to her to alter her perspectives on the ambitious Monsignor and the celestial dreams they’re both traded for a couple of weeks at least are possible. “I’m fairly hopeful yar perpetually changing your mind.” Melting unceasingly into the megawatt soothing, platonically loving embrace, consequently low hum in approval jingled angelic anthems into the widower’s flexible ears. “Because I can headstrongly feel that impulse of yars erupting the anomaly in yar decisions’ change.”

“I think the change is for better.”

“Yes! Yes! That’s right, dear!” Once the duo broke off the hug and took their time to survey in a cunning scrutiny one another’s enchanting facial attributes, a broadly content grin curved into a wide O the widower’s chapped, nude pink mouth. “I’m proud of ya for not being after somebody that is just smearing his own foul ambition across yar thoughts that’s a cold day in July.”

“Thank you for this night, Frank! Good night!”

“Thanks, Judy! Ya don’t need to be that grateful. Likewise, good night and sleep tight!” The hoarseness in Frank’s boyish sheepish, healthily breathy giggle didn’t vanish in the thin air after twisting the doorknob and retiring back to the abysmally dim lit hallway of the old asylum.

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _A Handful of Hours Later or So_ \---

“Come on, Timothy!” Vowels and syllables clashing for dominance to build your impending motivationally aspiring, heavenly caution to the British compatriot whilst you lingered your arms to secure his shoulder and waist on your way to your home, your mouths struggled to conjugate the series of restlessly breathy gasps and groans escaping your oral caverns in no time. Solely the night lamps provided you with sufficient artificial light to guide you in the very wee hours of the morning when yet the nocturnally starless jet-black darkness streamed its own cataract to fog the concrete ground, the monumental trees and the neighbourhood houses.

Just a handful of hours after the infernally ruthless conjuration of the British aristocrat, thereafter Father Kellan Teagan and Father McKenzie authentically, strictly instructed you to guide their fellow colleague to your home and the imminent conjuration is due in a few days, due to the fact it’s scarcely purely safe for Timothy to have interactions with the crudely cold world in general.

Even though you didn’t have any intentions of bestowing modicum of your money for taxi in three o’clock in the morning, anyway your home was less far rather than Timothy’s, fortunately.

Little did you know what kind of tribulations impatiently anticipated both of you in the thickly marvelous, indiscernible cataract of nocturnal stream obscuring beneath its own thick mantle of darkness the real world’s kitchen-sink vista. It resembled an eternal darkness where the escape was far cry from possible. The possibility of bumping into a lurking bloodthirstily spine-chilling notorious psychopath spurted utmost.

The hours between midnight and the very wee hours of the morning were the least safest daily episodes eventually, due to the utmostly unpredictable circumstances anticipating agitatedly for their imminent victim to be slaughtered in the lull of the gory, sinister demise. Nobody’s safety was dearly promised while ghostwriting the outdoors’ prospect.

“W-Where are you taking me, Y/N?” The deeply fiendish British lilt saturated remarkably Timothy’s groany inquiry whilst biding his broad shoulder blade and waist, opting to stable his posture while the awkward hauling of his anatomy towards your actual home hazardously motioned the constriction of your fleshy muscles that were manipulating his larger frame to not lose consciousness and flump embarrassingly sloppy.

“The priests told me I’ve to take you to my home. It’s just a brisk walk! You aren’t presumed to be worried at all.” Halting in a stop to take a brisk break from clumsily dragging his larger frame, thus you pressed an affectionately warm, consoling peck to his forehead and then his well-carved, surprisingly chilly cheek when your warmly cherub lips grazed the delicate facial skin, pronging with your stare the feeble restlessness contouring his facial features. “Don’t worry, Timothy! I solemnly promise I’ll take a good care of you even if I have to have a couple of days off from work at least while there will be somebody to replace me.” Maneuvering your fingertips to trace gingerly his right cheekbone and then the kissed spot, a childlikely mousy, crystal tear dripped from his brass-melded coffee brown orb while studying you in the corner of his periperical eye. “I will be always there for you. Your muscles are paralyzed, because from the demon, himself.”

“The heroes don’t always wear caps.”

“Mhm! It’s true!” A tearfully vague, woefully doe smile curled up at the corner of his chapped mouth shortly before retreating stubbornly to work. Namely ambling up slowly but surely towards your final destination.


	24. Killpop


      **☽ **
      _Oh, she's beautiful_
    

_A little better than a man deserves_ **☽**

  
\--- ***** **\---

"Urgh!" Gutturally unhealthy, deeply hoarse undertones prominently imbued the older man's uneven grunt sloppily dripping from his chapped mouth, while you manifested strong-willedly headstrong to drag his heavier figure on your way to the final destination.

"Don't worry, Timothy! We are almost home!" Incapable of giving up in the middle of your last resort towards your flat, consequently you maneuvered one of your elvish, femininely feather-soft hands to pat affably, lightly his shoulder as friendly reminder to billow elegantly gracious his worries and series of diabolically profound grunts. "We can do it. Believe me!" Reassuringly serene chuckle clicked emphatically the roof of your mouth, whilst the ambitious Monsignor manipulated his pearly-white teeth to gnaw smoothly the inside of his cheek continuously, his citrine-cinnamon brown optics relentlessly coasted its gawk of the neighbourhood houses and trees, besides absent-mindedly reckless scanning in a fleetly swift glimpse the concrete. In the interval, the luminous glint of stark overweariness billowed ruthlessly his citrine-cinnamon brown gaze and your E/C cabochons ominously headstrong imbibed every surrounding you passed at snail's pace.

In a long quarter an hour of embarrassing ambles towards the tall building, throughout you ushered nimbly your fingers to retrieve the keys to unlock the front door and then venture inside until you used the elevator that was amusingly functioning properly.

"Damn!" For a moment when you stood before the door in the middle of the sufficiently expansive hallway and channelling your solely free elvish, creamy hand's orthodoxy pristine fingers to shove the rusty key inside the keyhole, the haphazardness of the explicitive utmost sweeping the beginning of the British compatriot's dry tongue due to the fiercely fiery impulse coursing through his veins caught you off guard followed by his devilishly deep, heartlessly raspy snicker grinding on his mouth to curl his lips curtly. "What place this on earth is, Y/N?" Without awkwardly frosty oscillation searing heinously villainous your vortex of thoughts, everything roared its unfamiliarity to the British compatriot, trying to manage a slight jerk of his head to obscure the generous layer of cloudy thin veil unmasking the sheer vista of the absolute reality painted with the candidly nimble brushes of the vivid nuances.

"Hush, Timothy!" Shortly after turning the key in the keyhole to click once utterly unlocked the front door of your apartment upstairs, the subsequence of the nefariously mousy whine purred when the door swung broadly opened at the pitch-black corridor. "We're finally home!" When you both set foot inside the corridor and you kicked backward to slam shut the front door harmlessly, thus your great deal of arduous efforts to wobble diligently the larger frame towards your bedroom and dropping him gingerly, welcomingly sympathetic on top of the double bed that was adorned with promisingly vibrant amber silken duvet, matching with the conveniently cotton pillows.

"It's really soft. Mmm!" Eloquently elating, cold-blooded low hum under his breath once his back reclined carelessly against the amber silken duvet, consequently he channelled the inevitable protraction of his muscly, masculinely potent arms hypodermically billowing featherly-soft the frail, cozy fabric. It felt like heavenly, real paradise to land on conveniently soft furniture after the long, embarrassingly sluggish walk down the grimly sable streets in three o'clock in the morning.

"Since you are going to sleep on my bed," Once the back of your elvish, weathered hand maneuvered to bedaub the thick luminous coat of sticky, hideously sponginess mantling your forehead and contagiously sweeping your fist, a heavy sigh snorted through your tiny, vulnerable nostrils to sort your mind and to prepare utterly for the insomnia's nemesis. The real epitome of the sleepless nights to take care of one more soul besides yourself. Another sleepless day loomed to mark its own divinely gilt twilight. "I'm taking the couch."

Notwithstanding the circumstances, there were other days and nights like this and equating to the true motives of the insomnia and the heinously vermilion chaos and its rich cataract streaming through the grim reaper of the slumber.

"You won't!" Squinting up in the corner of his smoky quartz gem, austerely brass glaze scorched your petite-frame as your fingers worked on wrapping the amber blanket to swaddle conveniently warm his larger frame after his shoes were eventually discarded to ghostwrite motionlessly bumblebee yellow woolen carpet.

"Timothy, I'm not leaving you in woe to sleep on the couch!" Once the British aristocrat channelled his virginally nimble, trembling fingers to work on bundling firmer the amber blanket comfortably, thus his utter focus bore into your petite-frame yet and his charming facial attributes struggled sluggishly mousy to elaborate the austere grimace twisted beyond his light-heavy wrinkles. "I will be still good even if you are sleeping on more comfortable place, you know!" The haphazardness of the intensifyingly megawatt, unnerving doldrum ticked the uneasily advancing seconds at snail's pace as if the time has eventually halted and the clock's arrows no longer conjugated the unceasing functioning of their spirally indication of the real time.

During the uncomfortable, frosty doldrum's asphyxiation of the walls isolating you ajd Timothy from the general population's enormous world that emanates from the galore of rich urban prospects depicting the absolute reality, what it incredibly flabbergasted the British aristocrat was your altruistically benevolent nature engulfed into his comfort and safety. Even though the demon's invincible impending commands of leaking his wickedly bone-chilling intentions and his fiendishly ominous stubbornness bleated in heinous ministrations of plea to persuade you to not spend your night on the couch, the older man genuinely cared about you in general. Not only your health condition part of his concern was, but also your condition and current humor.

"Timothy, understand me it's for your own good! What would happen if your spine is deformed?" All of a sudden, the embarrassing hush dwelled out of the site as you managed to clear docilely, modestly your throat after your petite, brittle hand muffled when you dawdled to not dump the possessed holy priest all alone. Yet the beamingly sympathetic smile decorated your face. "Huh? What about the worse tribulations we would face by then?" The meekly strictness of your posed rhetorical questions dazzled the devotional man of the cloth softened his facial features, transfixing his smoky quartz cabochons to glaze you. "Quite ironic to behold the future Cardinal with deformed spine. I don't want you to suffer physically or in any kind form of it."

"What about the other days?"

"We shall see what will happen next, however, for now you will sleep on my bed!" The sharp emphasis of the last words to puncture your emphatic strictness rumbling through your vocal tissues even if they were creamily calm, soothing tingled alarming tones into the older man's ears. "Hopefully that's clear for you!"

"Yes, Y/N!" Maneuvering to raise an arch of his dark, thick eyebrow subconsciously, he manifested to bob his head in fair agreement.

"Good! I will be right back in a few minutes as if you need something urgent, call me by shouting!" Shortly before retiring to the corridor and then to the impending destination - namely the kitchen, throughout you pressed a celestially nirvanic, angelically loving peck to the top of his head and ghosting gingerly the curve of his ghostly pale façade as he offered you a vibrantly poetic, vague smile at you. "Okay?"

"Mhm!" Afterward your pristinely delicate, dainty fingers crooked around the silver classy door handle within a single click the door swung mildly opened due to the pressure.

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _A Couple of Days Later or So _\---  
\--- _1st of December, 1964 _\---

As soon as a couple of days became a victim of the megawatt swift progression passing at snail's pace and bleeding into the early December that was the final month of the early decade's divinely golden apogee peak, a handful of events accommodated fluently. Even if they were a handful of events, nevertheless, at least a wee inkling of action and the unnerving tick of the passing hours articulated their progress in the time in general.

Each passing second, each passing minute, each passing hour, each passing day lugged its own candid burden of surprises and woes. The time was genuinely valuable. Brilliantly valuable. Not only anything could alter in a single second, further it would be genuinely a change for better or worse.

During your stay at home with the aspiring Monsignor and looking after him with great deal of efforts, you had a week off work at least. Until the forthcoming, explicit conjuration of the possessed Monsignor, you didn't have any intentions of getting back to work or side-eyeing from your utter responsibilities to aid him to recover from the spiritual possession. The sole exceptions to flee your home cusped between arranged encounters with one of your buddies, venturing into the chain store or otherwise doing other wee chores that fueled your hectic daily schedule.

In spite of the rueful incidents you rarely encountered with the British compatriot due to his spiritual possession, he quickly adapted to the domestic atmosphere and became even more fond of you. You became even more doted on the holy priest.

Through the silver mornings, vibrant noons and nocturnally sable evenings you scarcely separated from each other, although the very absence of his appetite. He hasn't masticated anything in the past few days after the conjuration. Oddly, little did you know what were the real, authentically diabolical symptoms of his lacking appetite and evading to consume modicum of food to fill his stomach. Fortunately, glasses of water, the cups of divinely stream, vibrantly hot tea and coffee couldn't compensate his ravenousness eventually. Even one single glass of water or a cup of stream hot caffeine liquid fleetly oppressed his hunger.

Not only during the breakfasts, lunches and dinners' episodes you postponed to hop out of the kitchen table, but also you discussed opulence of authentically meaningful topics that were either simple or leaned to more complex. Shortly after the meals and the brief snacks, consequently you took turns to wash the dishes though you rather kept to your word to do the chores instead of Timothy. Miraculously, your interactions regulated to truly frequent and you got to know one another better.

Last but not least, during Timothy's stay in your apartment, you didn't earn any visits by the former licentious jazz nightclub singer. Little did you know how may react the head nun of the nefarious, old mental institution as soon as she fathoms the real location of the sheltered pious holy man at your home.

Oddly, he adapted to wear some of your deceased grandfather and father's garments even if they resembled quite unworn, antique. Miraculously, the vast virus of cozy comfort when the comfy fabric guarded his tangible muscles and flesh against the unavoidably stark exposure to the chilly climate to ripple his delicate epidermis with cataract of electrifying goosebumps, brightened his face and adapted fully to not wear any single garment that was his entire tenure. A few days after the first exorcism and his uncommonly inevitable phenomenon of avoiding to masticate something, the dim weight loss was clearly conspicuous.

Every time whenever it was a matter of question to ask him about his hunger or to savour a tiny bite of the meals you demandingly cooked for yourselves, his response equated to a jerk of his head and his portentously stubborn rejections to satiate his appetite even when his body's organs rumbled furiously.

When you finished your cup of coffee you shared with the British aristocrat, subsequently you managed to retire to the countertop as your starkly pristine, frail fingers waltzing around the drenched sponge to lather frequently, monotonously the egg-greased, filthy lily-white plate's surface until the food chunks lastly petered out.

"Please, don't do it!" In the interval, what it struck you dazzlingly vibrant was a larger, milkily veiny hand ushered to paw delicately, affably your shoulder, exceedingly exhorting you to not slat her your celestially pearly time in following meekly your daily schedule's chores and engagements that were nothing than a lavishness to accommodate your spare time for something different. Something unique. Something outstandingly extraordinary. Something that may be worth more of your time to be efficiently accomplished even if takes more efforts and stint. "I'll take care of it!" Reassuring honey, huskiness punctured his devilishly mellifluous British lilt's persuasion, tingling angelic hymns into your ears and the heart pulses' heatedly ferocious amplification scorched your fragile heart to thump restlessly barbaric in your ribcage. His nostrils gently buried in your H/L mane of luxuriously silky H/C strands stunningly curtaining your façade and ushering the stealthy inhale of your mane's deliciously breathtaking fragrance, prickling the relentless lake of goosebumps budding your overall arms and legs.

"No, Tim! I'll be good if I do it on my own." The hoarseness of your bashfully girlish chuckle hardly died on your tongue, squinting up at him with your peripheral eye to follow his fingers' timidly boyish movement gliding from your shoulder up to your delicate earlobe and then snatching orthodoxy gently a fistful of locks to promisingly welcoming tuck them behind your ear. "You can go to rest or do something you like."

"No, no, no! You did enough of that in the past few days since I'm here!"

"You are recovering and you haven't even eaten anything in days." All of a sudden, the oscillation to adjust your posture to turn to face categorically the British compatriot accommodated to your reflex, boring your E/C embers into his cocoa brown, luminous with childlike altruism and sanguinarily kindness. Even if the vile essence, yet, populated his frail skeleton and the bright topaz shades mottled to meld against the natural chocolate brown, the doubtless poetic and vibrantly profound twin characters highlighted his brown sanctums to be a home of hallowed benevolence and pure innocence. "Look what, Tim! I'll be good if my hands hurt or I can't even walk to the bathroom to take a shower or to clean myself after the huge housework that keeps me freshly motivated to take a good care of you! You are like a guest there, not a slave." The deplorably wry, doe smirk etched past your nude pink, fatherly-soft lips to obscure any wee inkling of despondency and lividness.

"I don't want you to be the one struggling physically at least just because of my sake, Y/N! I want you to be the one to relax and I'm not a slave!" The bare altruism heartened encouragingly warm your heart to let the reins off of yourself when it comes up to the daily housework that might be exceedingly exuberant for certain nobodies. Nobody has never embraced with open arms to replace you during your chaotic housework, chores or engagements. "Life is too short to waste your time on something that even drains out of your youthful energy to do something you desire." The unholy words sprawling its stormy tempest of waves to slap the gilt sandy beach's endless blanket flavoured soarly the older gentleman's tongue tip, in fact, yet he served solemnly the priesthood and any kind of a word that wasn't even embroidered in the priest's common vocabulary was far cry from adequate.

Or on the contrary...

Unquestionably bizarre.

"Life is too short to regret anything you haven't even tried and you haven't even complained how easy or difficult it appears to be even if you've ultimately desired it." In the meantime, the British aristocrat channelled his solely free mammoth hand to stealthily villainous to card the drenched, foamed sponge, etching broader his amiably goofy smile, unnaturally sculpturing its curves to stabilize the oral slit's expanse. "It's like missing the train for your dream destination, you know!"

"I didn't know you are such a fan of the chores, honestly!" Then his chocolate brown jewels, ignited the fiercely invincible flames of annoyance when they examined in a scrutiny each discrete detail inside the kitchen's interior like the generously dim layer of dust comfortably settled on the kitchen table paired with the handful of days-cleanless, dust-stained-clad window and the small blotches of greasy fingertips mapping the oyster-white refrigerator.

"My goodness! For how long haven't you bothered to clean there?" The suddenness of his close interaction with the kitchen table and a tad childish irritation nimbly leaked its scintillating grimace, darting its ferocious glance at each direction where the imperfections of cleanlessness taunted him.

"A few days ago!"

“A few days ago?” Repeating after you, his bottom baby-pinkish cherub lip twicted to escort diligently your utterance as Timothy re-participated in your company before the counter and the kitchen sink, while you struggled your throat muscles to flex to chug the bitter lump constricting your expanse. “Huh? That’s awhile since you’ve lastly dared to-“ Thereafter the possessed clergyman ushered you to retreat from the kitchen sink as his virginally handy fingers worked to lathering the remaining food-greased plate and the small quantity of coffee brown dregs pooling the mug’s porcelain surface warily and lathering every prominent fragment of the small entity until the luxurious cataract of foam dribbled its thick stream down.

“Tim, you’ve been so gracious and helpful even when you washed everything I dumped in the kitchen sink for a whole day! You aren’t some kind of a flunky!”

All of a sudden, the front door’s resonant reminder conveying its prominent message to you and Timothy about the uninvited guest currently awaiting for a frank response. The abysmally inexorable peal emanating from the front door boisterously joyous hummed, scouring its own ballad into your flexible ears, in first place caught you off guard and versatilely weak paralysation stung your bones and muscles, in spite of the humdrum, recurring stream of jet water showering the filthy entities and lowly droning to pitch the kitchen’s background.

“Just wait there! I’ll be fine as it won’t hurt a trip to the front door to check that intruder!” The haphazardness of pressing a tenderly downy smooch to his cadaverous, amusingly warm cheek melted the older gentleman’s brittle heart once your feather-soft touch of your nude pink, lusciously brim lips grazed his flesh. “I will be right back in a handful of minutes as safe as houses!” Gracefully hedonistic purr ousted from his brim mouth as you zinged out of the kitchen and managed to approach the front door momentarily, maneuvering to check through the door eye hole to acknowledge fully the current uninvited guest’s physique.

Sister Jude.

Bizarrely, how the head nun of the ill-famed mental hospital has found out about your recent residence and even not bothering to check on her boss? What kind of business her childlike inquisitiveness brought her to research your lair? Or rather, who has sent her to your lair for certain unanswered, untouchable questions until their mystery leaked?

Oodles of questions fiendishly inescapable, promisingly iron-willed incited to refill the patches of your very thoughts until the answers leaked eventually. Ruthlessly restless paralysis unkindly roared your facial muscles to numb your young-looking, refreshing facial attributes. An eerie flat line of emotionlessness, glassiness replaced your radiantly inviting, jovial smile corroded abruptly in the limbo. Each crystally effervescent pattern of exhilaration fell out from your complexion. Each naturally profound, abstractly artistic colour patterning your complexion ebbed off its chromatic tissues and unhealthily reckless etiolated nonetheless.

“Answer the door, Miss L/N!” Another humdrum ding of the front door escorted uncomfortably after peering through the door eye hole and you ushered your pristinely long fingers to slither sleekly to the rusty key and working on it to waltz until it clicks unlocked and afterwards open the large entity sufficiently wide to have a closer interaction with the senior woman of the cloth. “Thank ya for the answer, L/N! Good day to you!”

“Good day to you too, Sister Jude!”

“I’m here to check on the Monsignor!” A heavy sigh expelled through her frail lungs as her femininely strong, spidery palish fingers cradled the handle of the aspiring Monsignor’s suitcase, forcelly bundled up tightly with luggage, flicking up her caramel brown depths to examine you in a studious scrutiny from head to toes, trying to detect your body language’s genuine notion instantly. “In addition to I have also packed his luggage since Father Kellan and Father McKenzie informed me about his stay there.” Demonstrating straightforwardly the classy, jet-black suitcase that resembled at first sight pretty heavy, consequently thoughtlessly the blonde stepped inside the corridor as you slammed shut the front door politely, mousily without an ado. A primly cheesy, resiliently enigmatic smirk chiseled neatly across her naturally roseate, plumpish lips. “Until the next exorcism that will be due in a few days only.”

“Would you like something like coffee or tea,” The uneven pause due to the oscillation forcefully fiery searing your mind after the blonde casually, aimlessly stormed off to the kitchen where presumably she might find the British compatriot, whereas you kindly timorous’s escort ghosting your presence to not miss any step of Jude’s current visit at your home. “Or just a glass of water, Sister?” The sheer, sympathetic politeness puncturing your outspokenly magnanimous nature whenever you had formal interactions with anybody that wore a higher title in the hierarchy exuded its rich waterfall of golden altruism glinting up its realistically vivid crystals.

“Nah! I’ll be fine without either.” Once you and Judy paid a visit to the kitchen, consequently the ambitious Monsignor just finished with washing the mug and plate after squashing efficiently cogent the teal sponge and adjusting it dry alongside the kitchen sink that no longer leaked its luxurious cataract of jet water to splash against the surface. “Good day, Monsignor!”

“It’s good to see you, Sister!” Meanwhile, Timothy retreated to seat on the dinner table gracefully, flicking up his coffee brown big, rotund bijous to imbibe the older woman accompanying you.

“How is the whole situation with yar stay there?”

“It’s fine. I have already adapted to live with Y/N. It’s humble, howsoever, it’s still undeniably wonderful the place we share together!” The haphazardness of the nimbleness of your brim lips to seize its pensive, attentive purse while you were all ears during the both devotional members of the church’s colloquy. Although the dozens of sheepishly nonchalant stutters expelling out of the possessed gentleman’s throat, the true sensation of heartwarming compress molting relentlessly your heart due to his truthfully ingenunous revelation as you and Jude seated on the kitchen table, maintaining mutual eye contacts per a couple of seconds whenever it was anybody’s turn to conjugate its own confession. “I’m praying regularly whenever I have to! Furthermore, Y/N takes a really good care of me and she’s always next to me whenever I need her council and help.”

“Hmm, fair enough!” Ferociously antagonistic, vast jealousy foamed the Bostonian’s hazelish-brown huge, round cabochons, detectable beneath the thin veil of misty limbo that was unnoticeable or fortunately readable in the corner of Timothy’s eye. Pensive, hoarse cough, in order to clear her throat dramatically cold-blooded, dryly, was muffled by her white-knuckled, dainty hand clawing her mouth, whereas launching a twinkle-toed glimpse, astoundingly luminous with mild irritation whenever the nun had the chance to eye you. “I’m genuinely happy ya have adapted to a foreign household that quick, Timothy, besides Miss Y/N is a fairly responsible and mature hostess and respecting each other’s privacy.”

“You don’t have to be immensely worried about him, Sister! He’s in good hands after the first conjuration.”

“I don’t think his physique is leaning to the average.” Suddenly the older lady’s raspy Boston lilt spotlighted remarkably her inkling of incredulity after scanning her boss’s large frame like his leaner fleshy segments of his anatomy inclining to analogized to bony, nevertheless, yet neatly toned, contouring his outstandingly extraordinary masculinity even if the priest attires didn’t appareled his anatomy at all. “I didn’t remember him that,” The remarkable curve of the blonde’s jaw chattered unevenly in medley of awe, bewilderment and harsh odium due to the unhealthy pallid hue darkening the clergyman’s skin tone and the unusual emaciation as a result of not consuming any single quantity of food to fuel his stomach. At least, the British aristocrat’s weight didn’t lean to underweight or somewhere the inadequate scale at all. “That pallid,” The former sleazy jazz nightclub singer bleated a blatantly cold-hearted, dry cough that was immediately muffled, nausea swamping the pit of her stomach. “That astonishingly boniness! Oh God! I’m still wondering if yar truly deserving even to be called a responsible, mature hostess towards the poor priest, ya little girl! It’s like feeding the dog that will keep barking aggressively at you!”

“He rejects to eat for a handful of days. It’s not my fault at all even though I’m not living in poverty.”

“I see!” Even when the former promiscuous nightclub singer’s spidery alabaster fingers dumped the suitcase to settle comfy on the carpeted floor under the lacquered, hardwood kitchen table, a heavy sigh snorted through her nose incredulously, manifesting her brass trustlessness to your methods of your initiative to supervise the priest. “Timothy, I have question about that little girl that looks after you lately!” The suddenness of the strictly cold-blooded certitude billowing up the older lady’s rhetorical utterance, begging for the British aristocrat’s daredevilly imperative attention to be utterly drifted towards her, subsequently the grimace innervating her smile to peter out and the antagonistically arduous scowl darkening her oval profile.

“Mhm!”

“Is she hiding something she is afraid of exposing it clearly and yar the only one to prove the sheer brilliance of it?”

In a long moment of lucently bleak silence asphyxiating the walls of the very site, bittersweet lump seethed your feminine Adam’s apple while exchanging a ruefully friendly ogles with Timothy and then shifting your attention to the hostilely scintillating, crude glare, twisted past the Bostonian’s façade, the background noises of the droning vehicles and the richly jovial symphony of the birds outside solely chanted its own ode of the urban vista.

“Come on, Timothy! Just spit it out! The burden in your chest!”

“She isn’t hiding anything, Jude! She’s an undeniably marvelous and the loveliest person that has ever dared to look after me, trust me! You are barking up the wrong tree.”

“Okay! Since I collected fair amount of information about your nowadays life, I also left your suitcase under the kitchen table with your luggage.” When you and the pairing lifted up your rears from the chairs, thus you retired to venture in the hall, in order to say farewell to the holy woman. “Anyway, Ms. Y/N L/N, I’m truly grateful to ya for accepting me in yar home and not giving me a cold shoulder as I thought at first!” Shortly before the blonde aimed to the front door, you traded with one another a politely formal handshake, linking your both petite hands, whereas the British compatriot felt like a third wheel between you and his right hand.

“Needless to thank me, Sister! Goodbye and safe travels!”

“Goodbye!”

Once the raw slam of the front door stormily fanned the religious holy woman during her impending destination to descend the stairway, the blood boiled ferociously fiery and pure adrenaline coursing through her veins. It unnerved her how she would never win back the aspiring Monsignor’s heart ever again at the thought of a young woman swathing his flimsy heart with her cordial sympathy and diabolically insatiable warmness erupting his ultimate focus to you. Even though Frank was amidst her fewest candidates to be Jude’s actual knight in the shining armor of spellbinding its contagiously bewitching phenomenon of the pink love, yet the last interaction she traded with Timothy was never the same ever again. It felt like as if they’re solely friends or on the contrary prone to demonstrate signs of acquaintances that didn’t share a close, deep relationship as well. 

**Author's Note: And here we go with the new chapter of Hypodermic Transgression even though it seems peculiarly bizarre that I updated it slightly earlier than the usual. Likewise, I'd like to apologize for the postponing updates with Wings of Light, but I want to write the final chapter of 3rd Volume as perfect and realistic as possible, besides long. **

**Since the recent chapters of Hypodermic Transgression will have more frequent scenes with Timothy and the female reader, we're going to see finally mama female reader taking care of Tim. **

**Don't forget also to share your thoughts on the new chapter with me! I'd love to hear your opinions if you genuinely enjoyed and liked! :)) **


	25. The Devil in I

**Author's First Note: Since we are peaking to the 25th chapter, it will be the 25th chapter anniversary of the book. Moreover, don't kill me for naming the chapters more uncommonly enigmatic under the names of songs or anything that inspires me. I hope you like and enjoy the new chapter! :))**

**🃏** _Step inside, see the devil in I  
Too many times, we've let it come to this  
Step inside, see the devil in I  
You'll realize I'm not your devil anymore _**🃏**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _Later that Day _\---

Once the day became a viciously vulnerable victim of the nocturnal episode's twilight lull, the rotundly huge palish moon mounted the starless horizon in a jiffy. The monotonously wearisome symphony of the vehicle engines' rowdy hums coupled with the relentlessly honey-mouthedly mellifluous birdsongs and the people's chats foreshadowed the daylight's phenomenally poetic reminiscence in the limbo. Solely the uneven vehicles' acceleration in the nearby neighbourhood motorway droned humdrum and interpolating modicum of life in the lethally asleep of the nocturnal lull background.

The night was a sheer home. Home sweet home. The home of the opulence of exemplars that had any associations with the ebony, foreign darkness to sheathe conveniently their very essences or entities. The crickets' eloquently mellifluous songs. The inescapably huge, rotund palish moon. The darkest hours. Or rather the most enigmatic hours that aroused umpteen conundrums behind the night's true face and its aftermaths. The eventual and inexorably sinister, bloodthirsty demise, itself. The inevitably ferocious, fiercely vehement umpteen of demons and mystic shadows casted in the darkest outskirts of the sites to haunt down their own victims of the past, insecurities and the held grudges.

Even when Timothy unpacked sufficient quantity of his luggage that would be usable throughout the day, consequently the rest of the luggage remarkable paraphernalia remained inside the suitcase or somewhere spilled across your bedroom.

Oddly, the very first day of the last month of the year's relentless Boston night was embraced with a huge storm. Huge storm could be interpreted distinctively. Apocalyptically rowdy with its heavy rain of ferocious beehive of raindrops gruesomely villainous thumped the shut windows, doors and walls of the exterior, isolating its living nobodies to be secured promisingly welcoming during the hideously soggy hours of the nocturnal episode. Dryness balefully sheathing you and Timothy during your beauty coma's mission. Series of aggressive bolts thumped the ground with great deal of versatile, vindictively monstrous strength twitching the motionlessness of the façades and the trees, towering the people's visions and tinting their veritably scintillating, wonderfully bright thoughts.

Shortly after having another dinner time where the holy priest didn't even dare to curl his fingers to brace the tiny, silver entity to swig a healthily meaningful bite of the tomato soup you cooked a couple of hours ago, then you both traded your spare time watching television in the living room. Bizarrely, doll shows on the television might be not the best idea to be contemplated through its the viewer's eye fixated on the incessantly shimmering its lusterly abstract, flash light inching a couple of inches proximity at least. The showman, himself, genuinely bear a semblance of somebody Timothy truly knows in his life even if they hardly see each other daily. Or on the contrary, the recently arrested doctor after acknowledging thanks to the media and somehow the wee inkling the British compatriot darted its prominently villainous illumination to not diminish its glossiness under the vividly scintillating, aureate light.

The tv shows and soap operas that were commonly broadcasted on the television screen were allegedly presumed to entertain the viewers in general even if they didn't have anything to do or at least their interest didn't level out at all, it wasn't your thing at all except for the news that interested you the most and certain old Hollywood movies which have recently aired out.

Anyway yet another peacefully mirthful day you traded with the aspiring Monsignor, although the earlier today encounter you both accosted fearlessly self-assertive, moderately confident in your ambitions and intentions as well.

Little did you both know either today or someday even the utter harmony in your individual household could be dimly asphyxiated due to the din of the former nun. Anyway sooner or later you anticipated spontaneously sly the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer to venture up inside your home shortly after acknowledging the aspiring Monsignor's current residence.

Another night like the others. The sufficient comfort the sofa in the living room bestowed you to recline recklessly convenient with a sheerly comfy, classily apricot-bumblebee yellow quilt sheathing your motionless petite-frame, whilst the cottonly comfy pillow boldly binded your head beneath.

The hypodermically uncomfortable, coercively chilly climate waltzed serenely nonchalant in the site swathed in its most sable nuance harshly suffused broadly profuse even across the darkest corners.

Light, celestially calm snores pumped your brittle lungs and coursing its refreshing breath through your nostrils and mouth, timidly curving your roseate, lusciously cherub lips in a soft O. Struggling to find any lethally succumbing comfort on your current kipping position, throughout the subconsciousness of the maneuver of your muscles tensed when you flipped on the right side, directly facing the furniture’s feather-soft back pillows meagerly inching your nose and maintaining an adequate distance that gauged its less than a few inches.

All of a sudden, another apoplectically apocalyptic, roughneck lighting bolt joggled haughtily the ground, taunting the natural quiver of the trees, vehicles and façades until the eerily bold dings disgressed from more than once. One after one per a second. It resembled a blatant slur of murderously intoxicated by the sinfully mouth-watering liquor victim of the bad habits that somehow spellbinded its bewitching, powerful hex to afflictively sore counterfeiting the fleet liquor’s divinely bewitching curse of lacking control and rationality over the fiery impulses.

“Open the fricking door, you hideous bitch!” The hoarsely antagonistic and wrathful, the wail tingled alarming tones into your flexible ears when you immediately came to your senses and muffled the mewled blatant yawn with one of your petite, creamy hands and then working on fleetly nimble to unwrap the conveniently warm quilt from your petite-frame. The voice emulated to clearly familiar. It was your former drug boss from your past life Cole Derek Lowe. The most ill-famed, wickedly villainous drug dealer and cook of Maryland. “I don’t care how sleepy you’re but we’ve to talk.” Fiercely frustrated groan prominently expelled from your lips as you dashed out of the living room casually, aimlessly towards your impending destination. The kitchen.

In a long minute of monotonously strenuous recurring ding of the front door spieling the dully nocturnal lull of hush, after your initial destination to the kitchen to retrieve stealthily categorical the kitchen knife in self defense for your mission to confront the intruder and teach him a lesson with a couple of meaningfully ill-omened brandishes to imperil his celestially substantial life in a handful of morbidly gory, spine-chilling stabs thrusting his chest.

“Open the fucking door, you foul floozy!” Once you retreated back to the sable thickly, wonderfully mantled-clad corridor as your pristinely long, orthodoxy dainty fingers danced to brace circa robustly the kitchen knife’s hardwood handle, maneuvering yourself in a berserkly stealth stance, ready for any subconscious and ferociously foolhardy assault on the prey of its purely exuberant temptation to venture up into your property in the middle of the night. The nauseous resentment and the sinister rage seethed his tongue to conjugate the indisputably noxious caution as the dings were unwelcomingly replaced with series of vehemently incessant, humdrum raps pronging on the wooden entity. “Do not make me to break the door, Y/N!” Forcefully louder grunt conveyed its authentic reminder to daringly sacrilegious spotlight the austerely surly very nature of your former boss, pinching widely opened your E/C bijous, flicking spitefully valiant up to imbibe the locked front door.

It was your second confrontation with Cole after the fresh start you genuinely, dedicatedly fulfilled within a few years after the ominously nefarious involvement in spreading the drug products to its clients and interminably fueling the budget.

First and foremost, the last time which might be rather the initial antagonistic ever conflict after you bestowed yourself with the fresh start by moving from your birth town in the norther part of the monumental country with refreshingly mirthful, divinely entincing dreams was in the bar one of the late October days after your tough shift. Refreshingly mirthful potential in everything. Seeking new opportunities. Seeking a bright future for yourself and erasing everything that was beyond the past’s godlessly godforsaken, demolished realm full of ghost towns of memories and violently haunting held grudges. Notwithstanding the circumstances, you were more than ready to defend yourself and the ambitious Monsignor from the vicious claws of your ex-boss. The sacrifice was worth in the name of your safety and lives.

What would be the imminent surprise that Cole Derek might have cooked for you and the British compatriot? A bloodthirstily gory, inebriatingly brutish slaughter at your home and staging out its unspeakable ferociousness of the middle-aged man. Or rather another sardonic parallel to the bar fight and the fiercely devilish conspiracy against you to be institutionalized somewhere where your very presence the least deserved to inhabit or at least have any associations with the morbid, fatiguing madness. Or shortly before contemplating through the godlessly smug face of the demise, the blackout relentlessly unimaginable pierching through your muscles and bones to lose control over the simplest methods to defend yourself or at least to prevent the further party’s barbarically unseen, untouchable damage.

Since you were no longer populating Silver Spring, Maryland, how Cole Derek hasn’t even bothered sinisterly daredevil to venture up into your space and to frequent your conflicts? Little did you know what kind of luck has bestowed you to have at least twice unyielding brawls even if they took place within less than two months.

“Holy shit!” When you managed to sneak up towards the front door untouchable, profoundly attentive, the haphazardness of the bedroom door registered swung bashfully opened and mewling series of nefariously high-pitched wails until the British compatriot snuck up out of your bedroom to participate in your company after the unwelcomingly unsettling, gravely irksome hums and raps on the door. Nothing else could obscure his leanly bony muscles that constructed his outstandingly masculine, appealing anatomy except his old, seemly unworn often ruby and denim strip lines embroidering the ideal texture of his pyjama outfit as his pyjama top registered its agitatedly perky flare across his hips. A handful of buttons smartly were dumped unbuttoned leaking his thickly hairy, masculinely kinky wire embroidering his toned, muscly torso. The short mane of rumpled silken chestnut strands curtained his youthfully porcelain, healthyily handsome façade. “Timothy, what are you doing in the middle of the night?”

“He will notice it.” The continuously unnerving click of his dehydrated, berry-coloured tongue tingled alarming tones into your ears when the possessed clergyman channeled to approach you and subsequently maintaining a platonically intimate proximity when his brassly citrine-cinnamon brown embers kindled the very citrine flammable glint, scintillatingly landing on your kitchen knife as your sole weapon in self defense besides your comfortably plain pair of socks-clad feet. “Rare bird, your ex-boss isn’t that stupid to not notice the kitchen knife or the thing that could be called your weapon in self-defense.” Meanwhile, the subconsciously stabilizing the firm brace of your virginally dexterous fingers around your tiny razor-edged item when your very muscles gingerly tensed under the gruesomely silver-tongued, abysmally attractive British lilt of the possessed man of the cloth as his orthodoxy pallid fingers remarkably surreptitious, frangibly warily fingering and teasing mischievously the cleanly sheer steel curve, whereas his smelless hitched breathing fanned timidly your hair and profile. “You have to take him with a grain of salt, in fact, I’m here and the business to get him green around the gills is mine.” The supernally honey-mouthed, quiet yet solemn counsel transmuted into a cordial mumble the British aristocrat graced you jingled angelic anthems into your ears and pinpricking rabidly rapid the opulent yield of electrifying goosebumps your epidermis, whereas a marvelously wide, roguishly venomous smirk blossomed upon his naturally pale-pinkish, deliciously plumpish lips at the reassuring attempts to take care of your ex-manager.

The true notion behind the victoriously sacred context of his pledge mischievously kittling your eardrums fetched a solemn sentiment of something foreign that has Frederic demonstrated in the most platonic way. The difference between Frederic and Timothy’s ways of standing for you even when Cole could play his own cards right non-verbally articulated its utmost significance. The Michiganian that appeared to be your old friend has never had any subtle romantic feelings he has caged inside his flimsy heart even his youthfully attractive facial attributes to be relentlessly, artistically incised with sanguine hues.

Not only the grave grandiloquence artfully highlighted the genuine intentions of Timothy, but also his actual apocalyptic sacrifice cusping with the omen to potently solemn bond against the obdurately rebellious, iniquitos malice of the drug cook.

“Come on, you little bitch! Open the door if you aren’t taking it with a grain of salt!” Then the older gentleman ushered to charge his oxford-clad foot before violently kicking the hardwood door and focusing utterly on his mission of breaking it vigorously, whilst cunningly knitting his narrowed thickly dark eyebrows towards the bridge of his nose. “I’m fed up of awaiting your ass to get on the door to answer it for me. It just takes a couple of seconds. Huh?” A raspily unhealthy, cold-bloodedly dry cough rose from his Adam’s apple as you and Timothy bonded together to halt the intruder whilst you both aimed towards the door and your only free hand’s orthodoxy spidery fingers crooked around the rusty key to turn it nimbly.

“Psst, Y/N!”

“Y-Yes, Tim?” Shortly before drifting your ultimate attention to the rusty key’s emphatic operation, consequently your E/C minerals pursued eagerly for the British compatriot’s topaz-cocoa brown huge, roundish imbibing your gaze as one of his colossal, creamily satin hand perched on the small of your back, manipulating his virginally hallowed fingers to work on kneading on small circles the comfortable fabric of your plain iris large-sized T-shirt. The rabidly rapid heart pulses jovially throbbed into your ribcage at the very touch of the aspiring Monsignor that accompanied you and his demonic supernatural power to ensure you the welfare you truly deserved in your very home.

“I have a plan for that old prick!” Leaning before you as hardly an inch of adequately intimate distance you exchanged when his baby-pinkish, featherly-soft lips registered a tender brush of your earlobe, the hostile nickname of your former manager seethed a mutually healthy, gutturally inward snickers under your breath during the aggressive kicks on the door emanating from the older man.

“Go for it!”

“You are unlocking the door as I’ll use my telekinetic power as he crashes against the railing and as soon as he loses gradually consciousness,” A heavy sigh flushed his tiny, flexible nostrils shortly before the vainly smug, lukewarmly diabolical snicker bubbled up from his Adam’s apple when your fingers hardly worked subconsciously, idly on the rusty key to turn in the keyhole. “You know what you have to do, Y/N! Believe me that son of the bitch will get what he genuinely deserves and we will show him who’s the boss at last.” The suddenness of the British aristocrat managing to cup your profile into the palms of his amusingly warm, hypodermically soothing hands spiked thoughtlessly your self-esteem coupled with the rich maintenance of an eye contact and his huge grin adorning his pallid complexion.

“Excellent!” Then you both straightened your posture and instantly altering your stances into berserk, all ready for any non-verbal and verbal attack after managing a humbly docile nod in strong agreement to reaffirm your friend’s plan.

In the interval, when the front door clicked unlocked and it swung broadly opened at the sinisterly somber vista of the drug cook standing before the door and charging his foot for another kick yet, thus Timothy ushered his both pristinely colossal, strong hands to cast a supernatural spell in the form of telekinesis to bid ultimately Cole Derek’s frail skeleton from head to toes whilst indiscreetly unimaginable levitating slowly but surely and darting his scintillatingly merciless glare at you and your friend.

“I got it!” Exultantly unholy and stilling its smugness promiscuously italicizing the younger gentleman’s rhetorical utterance, raising an arch of his eyebrow arrogantly lukewarm, villainously infernal at the defeated, hopelessly writhing frail skeleton of Cole Derek, heinously rebellious elaborating to writhe his muscles to release himself from the unnaturally tight grip of the demon. “Rot in hell you jackass prick!”

“How dare you sleeping with that diabolical piece of crap, Y/N? Are you going to infect him with your carnal germs? I bet you already did it and no wonder why he’s on your side.”

“Ignore him! Focus on whatever it takes to bring him down!”

Once the telekinetic spell ebbed off its tissues to channel unceasingly its prey, thereafter Cole crashed against the unconsciously chilly railing of the floor stairs as it was your final opportunity to bring him down and hunkering down before his frail skeleton. Sorely painful agony and infernal numbness vibrated into his very figure and shrieking dozens of blatantly sore, starkly inescapable groans at the top of his lungs when his partly opened optics unceasingly blinked apt to choir while you aimed your razor-edged, sharpened kitchen knife to balefully entwining wrathfully past his face in the thin air as the clean edge maintained almost no appropriate distance with your recent target.

“Oh fuck! What is wrong with both of you? Are you aborigines?” Seconds before the first stab pronged his broad, bulky shoulder blade, thus the idle impulse of his hitched breathing synced against your graveously severe heart pulsations, boring your E/C bijous into his darkened gawk even when his head tilted shyly.

“Goodbye, you pathetic son of the bitch!” The initial vehement proded his his broad, bulky shoulder followed by emotionally dull plea, while the holy priest folded his muscular, potent arms across his chest and emitting a breathily vile chuckle, contemplating the explicitly bloody, graphic landscape of his love interest finishing your worst foe. “Hopefully you are licking Satan’s piss and never see the light of the day ever again!” Within a handful of fatalistically shameless prongs into his heart, subsequently Cole Derek’s hopelessly helpless large frame’s muscles and bones asphyxiated severely the numbness to command his ethereally eternal, bloody demise. “I’m thinking yet we haven’t even finished at all.”

In a sluggishly long minute of dozens of repetitively bloodthirsty, spookily mouth-watering jabs of the steel item’s edge, meantime, paradoxal paroxysm of complacence vibrantly profound vellicated your facial muscles to twist a psychotically gory, vengeful smirk across your face and thudding your fragile lungs to rumble the pants while straightening your posture in a jiffy and surveying in a scrutiny the aftermaths of your revenge. The bloodily delicious revenge.

The revenge, itself, could be interpreted in diversity of versions for every living being. The exemplar articulated the sinfully mouth-watering flavor of the gore and the nemesis. Most of all, you have already savoured the nemesis and the densely deluxe torrent of greasy, pervasive blood dribbling fabulously and staining partly your pajama along with the dagger.

Your bare hands have never being capable of committing such a sinfully insatiable mission. The homicide. You would never commit homicide due to your pleasure and taking after some vindictively psychotic, ill-famed serial killers their godlessly sadistic methods of kidnapping, tormenting and even inhumanely ending the lives of innocents. Howsoever, you didn’t have other chance to get rid off from your ex-boss who was nothing than a compulsive intruder and vandalizing your personal space twice after moving in Boston from Silver Spring.

Anyway the humongous difference between the self-defense homicide and the hair-risingly enjoyable sadism couldn’t be unfastened with an ease at all. There’s always a motive leading to the eventual demise of the others, regardless how barbaric or explicitly swift it was staging the stout brutality of the perpetrators.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, you didn’t have abundance of remaining time to cleanse the crime scene and to get rid off of the dead body. Even if the majority of the people in the neighbourhood and in your flat didn’t have any intentions of exiting their homes, however, there’s always a hazardous chance to being caught by your prying senior neighbours in something arcanely morbid when you and the Monsignor struggle to dump the dead body in the nigh abandon building that was a few blocks away from your home.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N!” The profoundly fiendish, husky undertones sharpened the British compatriot’s contentness of the nemesis you organized against Cole Derek in a New York minute without an ado.

“The question is how we will get rid off the corpse, rare bird!”

“I thought you would be an expert in hiding corpses.”

“We shall abandon it inside an abandoned building.”

“There’s nearby that is a few blocks away from my home.” After pressing a dotingly complacent peck to your cheek for your partly accomplished mission, consequently you ventured up inside the hallway and dashing to the kitchen to sprinkle warily each discrete detail of the dagger and then dumping it along with the other washed eating tools and putting on a large velvet chocolate brown reefer, in order to obscure the thick, fresh blotches of blood embroidered on your large-sized T-shirt and capri. In a long minute of versatility, you dragged out deftly headstrong the corpse out of the building.

\--- ******* \---

Series of graciously meek, modest raps on the office door of the former licentious jazz nightclub singer caught her off guard, whilst manifesting to drag out of her head the conservatively dark wool wimple that neatly coiffed her long golden wavy hair on top of her hardwood bureau, stilling her spidery palish fingers on her lion mane of old Hollywood silky aureate tresses curtaining majestically flawless her profile. Her hazelish-brown big, round embers glazed the medium-sized window’s rich illustration of translucent rainy beads blotching the flimsy panes.

“Just a second, Frank!” The Bostonian purred a gracefully honey-mouthed caution seconds before zinging towards the locked office door to give an access to the security guard to pay a visit to her even if she was getting ready for bedtime.

In the meanwhile, the Bostonian’s conjugated series of docilely fashionable, coy steps whispering against the concrete floor tingled alarming tones into the security guard’s ears after mousily following her instructions to keep his wits about her very presence. A coyly boyish, elegant smile curled upon his naturally baby-pinkish, lusciously cherub lips as his azure blue optics landed horizontally on the door idly, awaiting for the impending call diligently. Within a couple of seconds, the office door clicked unlocked and then the blonde’s spidery brittle fingers crooked around the doorknob and pressing it categorically until the door bestowed the pairing a sufficient space of their intimately platonic proximity.

“Oh Frank, it’s good to see ya in the middle of the night!” The haphazardness of the raspiness of Judy’s healthily breathy, fleetly girlish giggle didn’t fade away and flicking up her honey brown embers to spear his azure blue. At the moment, the widower manipulated his front pearly teeth to nip at the delicate skin of his bottom lip to stifle an amused gasp or other further noises.

“Yeah, Judy! Ya know, I’m having that night shift and it keeps me awake like a night owl.”

“Definitely!” Suddenly the former sleazy nightclub singer emitted a ruthlessly sharp exhale at the top of her frail lungs, knitting her elegantly thin, dark eyebrows while noticing the wee inkling of her friend’s ogle, luminous with medley of sheer desire, unconditional love, fiery warmness, impious lust and restless kindheartedness glimmering its very true nuances of his lapis lazuli gemstones that were always in awe of the nun’s natural, ethereally endless beauty when they traded privately informal interactions with one another. “I was thinking something,” Her wet, berry-coloured tongue nimbly crafted the dozens of girlishly demure falters into her whispers, strongly hoping Frank would be the knight in the shining armor to take the first step to grant themselves a refreshingly heavenly start after their past life in Briarcliff and closing emphatically the books of their lives’ previous chapters.

“What’s on yar mind?”

“I was thinking since our close, deep interactions lately, why don’t we move on in our lives by leaving this place? Ya know?” Clearing gruffily awkward her throat after muffling the blatant cough with her only free elvish, alabaster hand while the widower’s merry smile expanded rabidly perky, being all ears and aware of his boss’s self-consciousness. “Do we?”

“I would do anything for yar sake and happiness just to behold that stunning sparkling smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.”

“But Frank, that’s not just a fleet change in our life for better and getting out of there like some ex-nuns and staff members that highly doubt their happiness are depending on supervising loonies.”

“I know, Judy! For how long were ya thinking this?”

“Since ya know, I was starting to think more frequently about ya.”

“Is that true?”

“It’s. I’m not finding my own happiness to run a place where my hopes are wasted and I have finally found the ideal person that can always count me for better or worse.”

The embarrassingly nimbleness of the doldrum suffocating the very walls of the mental hospital abysmally tormented the duo to sort their minds during their revelation time to leak their very confessions to structure more properly their lives with more valuable priorities on their way.

“You know what? I’m coming with ya, no matter if it’s tomorrow or now.”

“It’s better for us to do it right now before it’s too late.”

**Author's Final Note: I know how sinisterly bloody this chapter turned out to be, but it's high time for some brutality! Moreover, we're approximately in the middle of the story even if the brutalities start from there or the beginning, depending on each reader's perspective. **

**Anyway feel free to share your thoughts with me on this chapter! I'd like to hear your opinions as well if you genuinely enjoyed and liked this work!**

**In addition to I'm planning to bond Jude and Frank in this story whilst the reader will be with Timothy since it's pretty evident the storyline, itself. **


	26. Not the Couple Average


      **☢ **
      _One step too late_
    

_And I never told you _ **☢**

\--- ******* \---

\--- _The Next Morning_ \---

\--- _2nd of December, 1964_ \---

As soon as the new refreshing day became a victim of the sunrise’s vibrantly profound, golden lull, each elapsing second of passed at summer breeze’s elegantly feather-soft pace, subsequently the pious woman of the cloth got up and was getting ready to pack her luggage in a few detached suitcases that fluctuated between neatly folded attires and lingerie, sinfully tantalizing cosmetics, her remarkably precious paraphernalia and pairs of shoes smartly sorted inside the cryptic large entities.

The early December dimly cloudy sun’s ominously unyielding attempts to mount up the horizon and to be exquisitely spotlighted even if it was villainously outnumbered by sea of lifelessly sooty-silver clouds manifesting its creamy ghostwrite slowly but surely, the vague divinely gilt, demanding saturation streamed bountifully weak through the open-curtained window of the austerely ambient office of the blonde. The early December Boston days appeared to be chillier even than the mid-November ones. The wee inkling of the forthcoming astronomical season and its relentlessly vindictive iciness unceasingly rumbled up to alter the climate and abating the sunny, balmy days. The astronomical season that cusped the autumn and the winter in a potently intensifying bond spine-chillingly imperiled to diminish the quantrum of nobodies who were brave enough to populate the outdoors’ sunshine luxuriously gilded translucent carpet.

Solely the warriors that had mandatory obligations to attend regularly prominent institutions like school, workplaces and so forth were the only warriors that ghosted the very streets and outskirts of Boston in the wintery days. Every day their hectic daily schedule could fuel utterly their cells and muscles with inexorably doubtless burden of stress and chaotic business and hauling out their unimaginable intentions of taking a brief break even if they channeled their frequent flickers, conveying its friendly reminder to not outwear their fleshy tissues. Every day was a new day for more refreshing inspirations, celestially dazzling ambitions and a wonderfully bright aim to articulate fluently their real motives that accorded them to pursue eagerly their divinely heavenly desires and raw foreign realm of their objectives.

“_The notorious drug cook of Silver Spring, Maryland under the name Cole Derek Lowe, aged fifty-four, is found dead inside an abandoned brothel in one of the most isolated neighbourhoods of Boston!_” In the meanwhile, the radio lowly hummed the exceeding breaking news about the hair-rising homicide of Cole Derek Lowe, pitching the background and melding smoothly even outnumbering the despondently rowdy, blatant bewails of the inmates ghostwriting the long, dim light hallways of the old, dilapidating asylum. The head nun of the asylum managed to pose before wall mirror of her en-suite bedroom whilst fashionably primping studiously her physique and subconsciously mild swaying her swanly drop-dead gorgeous, well-sculptured hips rhythmically, all ears to the radio news. Most of all, her childlike earnestness to contact the exalted clergyman Father Malachi for her emphatic resignation from the church and banishing her out of the ecclesiastically sacred duties to serve the miserable cloth of chastity and solemnly marrying God physically and spiritually, canvased the very jovialness to be illustrated on her delicate facial attributes. A weak layer of make-up such as conservative mauve pattern painting her lusciously brim lips didn’t hurt to doll up herself at all. It could be a significantly luminous twinkle of her victorious motive to be ultimately fulfilled today and savouring the heavenly freedom of joining the general population to date somebody and spend the rest of her days with her soulmate altogether in their own property and construct their own fresh start utterly as the initial bricks is the true hint of the beginning they accorded as well.

A classy vermilion short-sleeved dress stopping slightly above her drop-dead gorgeous, symmetrically round knees as its jovial flare of the hem delineated exquisitely her curves along with V neckline partly exposing her scrumptiously well-carved collarbones and expanse, paired with classy refined sable chunks affixing her petite, brittle feet, black stockings and her conveniently sable pantaletot smartly sheathing her torso and hips. In addition to her physique, her prominent silver earrings pierced her delicate earlobes. The infernally enchanting fragrance of feminine perfume registered to whiffle past her button nose. Last but not least, her halo ringlet of richly velvet old Hollywood golden locks stunningly, outstandingly hoisted to frame her oval, full profile.

“_The dead body was presumably dumped inside the abandoned brothel the last night as it’s speculated nobody noticed the murderer to get away from the piece of evidence for the investigation that could have increased the chances to detect the actual perpetrator._” The haphazardness of the emitted dozens of gentlemanly diligent, refined raps on the office door as Frank has already fully packed his baggage and patiently awaited for his almost ex-boss after keeping her wits about his very presence before the large entity caught off guard the Bostonian. The very thoughts that refilled the patchy hollow of the jumpcutting speculative scenario brightly abysmal shadowed her vision and creativity if Frank beholds her out of her habit for first time at last. Presumably he would be in awe to cast his obstinate ogle to prong her from head to toes and admiring her crispy grace. Regardless the circumstances, Jude is always stunning even if the fugliest, the least comfy piece of garment swathed her most intimate parts of her petite-frame and gracefully contoured her very curves. She was so profound. She possessed the real gaze of a holy Succubus with the most poetic, divinely eye-catching caramel brown gemstones have ever imbibed and conquered the representatives of the opposite sex’s frail hearts. The Holy Succubus behind the lifelessly hoary, blood-curdling walls of a godless façade that was rather the mortuary and the final destination for the loonies.

“Judy!” The sheer hoarseness, masculinely attractive northern lilt punctured the widower’s informal exclaimation whilst darting his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to manipulative its fresh lick of his upper and lower pale-pinkish, brim lips.

“I’ll be there in a second, my knight in the shining armor!” Honey-mouthed, mirthful radiance emphasized remarkably the very undertones of the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer’s utterance, recklessly sloppy dripping from her mauve-painted mouth after shooting her cinnamon brown gems on her way to dash out of her en-suite bedroom and to unlock categorically the hardwood door.

“_Moreover, the corpse was taken in a special laboratory for an autopsy to collect more evidence to suspect the possible perpetrator or perperators that have dumped and murdered inhumanely the drug dealer!_” The pleasantly eloquent radio journalist’s Boston lilt unfalteringly brilliant highlighted the breaking news’ additional information behind the barbaric death of Y/N’s ex-manager even though it was genuinely oblivious to the authorities who were involved unceasingly in the bloodthirsty nemesis.

“Here we go!” Meantime, Jude maneuvered her petite-frame to step before the office door and ushering her dainty slim, marbled fingers to waltz around the rusty key, whereas bleating a blatantly excited murmur under her breath escorted cozily by a bashfully idle, healthily guttural giggle. “Hi!” Once Jude answered the door after her agile fingers worked gradually on the rusty key to turn and click the door unlocked, consequently she pressed the doorknob diligently and the candidly pleasant vista of the former police officer dolled up in different outfit than his habitual work uniform that was sufficiently cozy and large to shroud loose-fitting his anatomy, nevertheless, modarely elastic to not dodge and underestimate the contour of his unappreciated, extraordinary masculinity beneath his ordinary work uniform. Plentitude of carmine pigment darkened the middle-aged lady’s unblemished porcelain, elderly young-looking complexion.

“Hi Jude! Aren’t ya ready for the big adventure, are you?” The awkwardness billowing up the verbal coherent waves of low hum gearing the radio was rather a third wheel for the duo even if it accommodated fluently to greatly commingle with their northern lilts accentuating their exchanged utterances and the fervidly relaxing birdsongs bracing the grandiose, dilapidating madhouse’s building. The bashfully goofy, beaming smirk flowerily corroded the flat line that once flatted upon his baby-pinkish, brim lips. The morbidly joyous amplification of the heart pulses wavered unceasingly into her fragile ribcage. They synced to the parallel hammer into her flimsy eardrums and the hefty paradoxal paroxysm’s ball curling into the pit of her stomach and dribbling its multiple rivulets of celestial warmness to marinate hypodermically her lower abdomen, accompanying sympathetically her organs.

Every time whenever the former policeman’s figure perched beside the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer’s eyesight even following every photogenic motion of his choiring eyeblinks, handsome profile and anything discrete that could cloud her hazelish-brown embers, he was the true reason of her graced smile as if it emulated entirely to her felicity on cloud nine. How such a mere man that lost his wife due to breast cancer and his both daughters were grown adults with their own individual lives and ambitions could wear metaphorically the title the knight in the shining armor and alter entirely the pious sister of the church’s perspective on the love and the delightful things in the life? Was she beholding into him some kind of a redemption after each adversity that has taught her a lesson and prominently embroidering its permanent scar of medley of sorrow, heartbreak, lividness and numbness to not grant her trust with an ease to anybody that dared fiendishly cocky to bring her down and to overlook her true value into their eyes? Was he much better than Timothy who was currently having a speculative secret affair with Y/N?

“_Today after the autopsy of the corpse, therefore the presumable perpetrators according to the DNA and the blood investigation will be questioned by the authorities! Within a couple of hours there will be more leaked information about the brutal death of Cole Derek Lowe._”

“Of course, Frank! I’m more than ready to sacrifice for my resignation from the church.” At the moment, the Bostonian dumped the timorously ajar opened door wigwagging featherly-soft when the pure impatience of the security guard’s anticipation to gather utterly the holy woman along with her packed luggage, in order to grapple the suitcases and to turn off the radio without turning her back to contemplate through the thin veil of the incandescently doury sulfur past. Once the middle-aged lady’s arachnoidly milky deftly crooked around the suitcases’ handles to stable the extra weight balancing her figure on her mission to bolting out of her dour, uninviting office to participate in Frank’s company to fulfill her quest of the yearned consecrated liberty at last, she manipulated her tongue to lick greedily gamely wary the dense layer of conservative mauve painting her upper and lower lip. “It’s time for the change and the adventures.”

“Excellent, dear! Likewise, I have called the taxi to take us to our next destination, ya know.” Once the platonic duo glided smoothly at snail’s pace in the abysmal, dim light corridor of the mental institution, a handful of staff members passed through Jude and Frank aimlessly, utterly focused on their imminent destination.

“That’s good! We have like a few minutes before we say finally goodbye to our old crappy positions.” A healthily breathy, freshly chirpy giggles traded with one another the pairing as their bottom mouth-wateringly plumpish lips twitched at the coherently blatant, expressive noise begging for its immediate haulage to conveying its blabbing long walls to imbibe the lifelessly brick walls of the façade.Their childish mirth didn’t fall off from their facial attributes and their voices. The genuine sentiment of the merriness could be formulated in variety of individual exemplars, belonging to its owners to eavesdropping their roars expounding the doubtlessly essential notion behind its enchanting feeling. It was so contagious. It was so profound. It was so arcane. It wasn’t even worth a couple of pages chapter to formulate fluently, fully the real concept of the felicity in the people’s lives. “And to this snake pit, of course!”

“The farewell is inevitable and we shall take it with grain of salt,” The raspy breathiness almost emulated to the conjugated snort while formulating her own very thoughts pouring up in her recent revelation, flicking up subconsciously her honey brown gems at the exquisite architecture of the corridor’s walls thoughtlessly, in order to sort her mind persistently to not arouse her friend’s subtle, unnatural incredulity eminently highlighting his hoarsely silver-tongued voice and the very curves of the sketch articulating his trustlessness twisted past his facial features. “It’s like a moment of our lives that will be in the past within a few minutes at least. It’s rumbling up to be embroidered its ink etching the paragraphs of our final days in Briarcliff on the books of our lives’ previous chapters and our fresh start shall commence after Father Malachi dimisses my title and clerical possessions.”

“Exactly, dear! I’m really on fire how we will build our own future life. It just arouses my keen enthusiasm to contemplate through its orb the majestic creation of the small bubble we’re engulfed in.” Meantime, the former police officer managed to clear his throat after yanking gentlemanly one of the suitcases of his friend, in order to plummet down the physical pressure she’s dedicatedly absorbed in bidding her fingers and hypodermically coursing its sheer, sore pressurable pain of holding heavy entities. “It’s like the oracle that is beholding through his magical orb our future, our aura we’re definitely oozing of to construct our happiness and our desires in one place.” Shortly before retreating from the hallway and setting foot in the lobby’s segment of the façade, throughout Frank pressed an affectionate, platonically affable peck to Jude’s well-sculptured, ghostly pale cheek.

\--- ******* \---

Once the very wee hours of the morning bled into the sunrise’s vibrantly saturation to pierce your apartment’s windows even if the velvet curtains broadly flapped its very tissues to sheathe tenaciously the panes, thus you and Timothy came to your senses beyond peacefully.

After the vermilion event of the sole homicide that coated marvelously your bare, petite hands in godless layer of nirvanic foulness, promiscuity clinging hypodermically to infect your very flesh in the thick gloves of the slayer, consequently you took a refreshing, hot shower the last night before hopping up back on the couch in conveniently new pajama outfit and discarding your bloody blotched in the basin for your future laundry. Fortunately, neither of your neighbours didn’t venture up to pose galore of questions about the cryptical murder of your ex-manager, nor they have even oscillating between you and Timothy as the main antagonists in conspiracy against the drug cook.

The bloodthirsty smugness and unqualified nirvana clinging heinously headstrong to your facial expression that was so unbreakable and so untouchable by the eventual leaks of pangs of the conscience in the nearby future didn’t cease to flabbergast you at all. You felt the eventual ultimate freedom of no vendetta roaring in your hurricane of thoughts and chasing down in the forms of sable, undeniably sly shadows and invincible demons to be casted in the corners of every site you’re housed momentarily.

All you cared about was about your safety and no longer ghosting through the eventually future adversities’ presents of your nemesis. No longer cared about Cole Derek who was possibly the true epitome of a psychotically compulsive infiltrator that could scarcely cope with your current life and your passionate ambitions. You solely cared about the aspiring Monsignor and your main goals.

Even if your very conscience’s ominously unbending attempts to engender a wee inkling of shamefacedness to paint your façade and relentlessly seeping every tissue of vibrant glossiness of your pride, stamina and self-confidence and every glossy colour of your skin tone’s healthy anatomy, it didn’t work at all. The gears of the fiendish shadows and invincible demons’ cells to contaminate your very thoughts were far cry from stubbornly iron-willed to halt your cutthroat legion of the divinely euphoric peace you executed after eliminating your worst foe after all.

On your way to one of your initial destinations before the kitchen, the series of demurely mousy footsteps of your cozy slipper-clad footsteps glided creamily, leisurely towards the bathroom gauged your progress to step before the shut teal door. Oblivious to the blood-curdling delay of the British compatriot whilst dawdling his very presence inside the sufficiently expansive site, without a second thought you manifested to fashion into a balled fist your elvish, creamy hand to rap a few times politely, kindly to keep the holy priest’s wits about your very presence standing beside the shut door dividing the both sites’ linked together.

“Just a second, rare bird!” The twisted faucets moderating the liquid’s temperature while the stormy blast of water splashed against the marble surface as the ambitious Monsignor peered childlikely inquisitive over the cosmetics and the bathing supplies, his cinnamon brown minerals shimmered out the brightest shade of the topaz that glassily drank his facial profile as his neatly trimmed stubble was thickly coated with countless translucently crystal watery beads to obscure any wee hints of spiderwebs mantling his façade. “Carpe diem the wee patience seething up your veins!” The low drone of the sink’s humdrum symphony roomed your vulnerable ears.

The reassuringly eloquent British lilt of Timothy has never ceased to dumbfound you even if the dim, impulsively fierce pique accented his ballad of his anger or rather spleen. How a devotional member of the clergy whose homelands could be reckoned two can be the real definition of perfection? How a man serving devotionally the cloth of chastity could alter your worldview in general promptly? Whenever you faced his darker side donning up his larger frame in the unbreakable armor of the vices, the eyecandy aura artistically whiffled past you. Whenever his despondent humor drained each functioning, stable tissue of his, you were the light of his day. You were the God’s Messenger that was sent from the paradise’s ethereally gilt freedom of the justice and euphoria to bless every member of the inner circle that has captured your heart. You were the ray of sunshine that could alter even a single second of Timothy’s breathing and living after a tough or a horrendous day full of tribulations and bad vibes.

You candidly cared about somebody that has sacrificed more for you rather than you for him. Notwithstanding the circumstances, you’re the only person who granted him a shelter after the initial conjuration to heal his physical and mental wounds, in spite of the monotonous linger of the vile essence inside his frail skeleton.

It’s been a handful of minutes since the older gentleman has occupied the bathroom for cleaning himself, brushing his teeth and sprinkling his face. Pretty casual activities that fueled his morning routine. Indeed harmless to be blamed even if his mild delay could get on somebody’s nerves including yours.

What it was oblivious to you was what the spiritual possession’s aftermaths could be and how abysmally sinister they could be interpreted eventually.

In the interval, the older man maneuvered his fingers to turn off the sink’s faucets and examining in a scrutiny in the corner of his smoky quartz minerals each discreet detail of his pallid, young-looking complexion. Once again a weak, primly wicked smirk incised dexterously across his chapped, nude pink lips at the lukewarm complacence of masticating for breakfast a handful of tiny spiderwebs and spiders in the corners of the bathroom after eavesdropping the same old ode of the aggressive stomach’s growl after evading to consume even modicum of food chunks to refill his abdomen. Revamping his uncommonly frigid, diabolical habits to lean to eating something different than the adequately accepted portion of meals or mini snacks were a sheer evanescence for you and his other relatives.

In a quarter a minute, the bathroom door popped broadly opened at the prospect of the leaving man of the cloth and the abrupt softening of his charming facial attributes as his prim wicked smirk was replaced with a sympathetically daredevil, mischievous smile permeated past his mouth and boring his smoky quartz minerals into yours.

“Morning, rare bird!”

“Morning, Timothy! I didn’t know you’re up slightly earlier than me.” Returning the flavorfully radiant, profoundly warm smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, consequently you followed each motion of his body language and muscles’ twitch and contraction even the numerous of crystalline beads wonderfully mapping his appealing stubble that spotlighted prominently his masculinity and neat looks. His short mop of tousled brown strands perkily bounced and bearing a semblance of a prey of the ferocious wind’s howl and the spent hours in the bed sheets and brushing his head multiple times against the cotton fabric of the comfy pillows. “What a pleasant surprise!” At the moment, the possessed holy man approached timidly, meekly you and maintained an appropriately intimate proximity, scarcely inching your syncing heart pulses throbbing into your chests and the graceful warmness coursing through your delicate epidermis.

“You know, I needed to use urgently the bathroom!”

“I can see that.”

“By the way, I’ll make the breakfast.” Moments before your temporal usage of the bathroom as you were on your current mission to step inside the site and your docile footsteps slithering sleekly the chilly tiled floor, the purely promising and scrumptious delicateness crafted the solemn oath the British aristocrat delivered out, devilishly deep and stubbornly benevolent.

\--- ***** **\---

\--- _A Half an Hour Later or So_ \---

“What are your biggest regrets, Y/N?” It’s been a couple of minutes since you and the older gentleman have seated against each other on the neatly, modestly embellished kitchen table that was accompanied by a mere teal tartan blanket underneath the flimsy plate of the mouth-watering French toast settled on top of the furniture, the floral vase with autumn flowers and two mugs of refreshingly streamy, hot caffeine beverages. A few guiltlessly hedonistic bites etched the breakfast dish as your sticky-greased, spidery fingers absent-mindedly danced around to fiddle clumsily the plate’s material and flicking up your E/C embers to kindle an intesifyingly everlasting eye contact with the pious man of the cloth.

“Except my drug dealing business, what else I have to actually regret?”

“For example deeds or anything you may have brought a disappointment to your loved ones or demonstrating the self-hatred.”

“You know!” Shortly before clearing gruffily your throat as your petite, frail hand muffled the dry, healthily throaty cough and waltzing leisurely your fingers circa the French toast to bring it close to your stickily-greased cherub, roseate lips, a pause stung the temporal doldrum that was outnumbered by the eloquently elating birdsongs and the hitched breathing of the British aristocrat. “There were times when I wish I learnt the self-love much earlier. Like in a New York minute.” In the meantime, grazing softly another bite of the scrumptious French toast that built its perpetual hedonism inside your oral caverns, your pearly teeth frequently stubborn worked on grinding to shatter the bite on smaller scale of chunks and eventually swigging it.

“The self-love is truly worth to be taught and to be the first step that constructs your individuality.” The suddenness of Timothy’s villainous potentness articulating his nimbleness lifting with an ease his cup of caffeine liquid to boldly hydrate his inexorable insomnia and nirvanic nerves fogged your eyesight. Stark, ethereally timeless wisdom eminently canvassed his serene council. “You know, I have learnt it after knowing what I frankly want to become even if my family weren’t very fond of my decision to join the church even when I earned the initial call from God. Sometimes I hated myself how I left my family to rot and they told me multiple times that I can be helpful in variety of ways even if I’m not serving the miserable cloth.”

“Oh! But your family didn’t even dare to respect your golden ambition to rise in the highest tiers of the church as I recall.” The inevitable blast of vividly explicit memories of the one of the informal colloquys you both shared when he treated your shamelessly afflictive pale plum wounds and bruises mapping your frail skeleton blared fiercely your very memories.

“That’s true! There are times when it just tears off your heart how you still love someone that doesn’t even bother to disrespect your wishes or decisions.”

In a long minute of uncommonly frosty silence asphyxiating the very walls of the kitchen and the vibrantly photogenic, scintillating sun rays pierced the widely opened curtains, dozens of diligently polite munches stung your wet, strawberry-coloured tongue and ivory teeth to grind recurring the bites until they filled the pit of your stomach and swapping with your friend ogles that spoke volumes. Ogles that were windows to your very souls. The very depths of your souls with myriad of paradoxal oasises and desolated deserts of your tantalizingly daredevil desires chasing you down. The silence spoke volumes, besides showing the true colours of the homely convenient ambience swaddling you warmly.

“I have spent my whole life fearless even if I was frightened of the destiny that rendered me to harvest its crops of woes. Crops of amusing surprises. Nineteen years I spent like that. Finding myself awake at three in the morning.” Knitting your brows elegantly to cusp the bridge of your nose, consequently the British compatriot was all ears of your monologue when you daubed gently your greasy fingers in a separate handkerchief to remove its hideously unctuous layer coating your fingertips and digits. “But you know what?” The rhetorical question begging for an immediate attention pinched widely opened the devotional clergyman’s chocolate brown bijous, licking thoughtfully his lips. “Ever since I moved there, I sleep just fine. And I came to realize it’s that sleeplessness that’s worst of it. That’s the real enemy. So,” A brief pause scorched balefully vindictive your tongue when the ambitious Monsignor’s mammoth, amusingly warm hand insistingly pursued to grapple yours and his virginally velvet, slim fingers cradling your brittle knuckle on reflex, gracing you with plenty of consolation to diminish the uneven stammers bubbling up from your throat. “Get up, get out in a real world and you kick that bastard as hard as you can right in the teeth!”

“I’m really proud of you, Y/N! For everything you have achieved.”

“You don’t care I was a drug dealer once again?”

“Look what, little bird! That’s water under the bridge.” Ushering to raise an arch of his masculinely dark, thick eyebrow exquisitely to indicate his seriousness, your lips curved into the gravely pensive purse. “I’m certain you are capable of wiping the slate clean which you did an exquisite job of it!” Then the older gentleman brought your hand to his mouth and planting a featherly-soft, promising kiss on top of your fist, followed by a friendly squeeze.


	27. Where The Wild Things Are

_Trigger Warning for _ **💉** _Blasphemy & Strong Language_ **💉**

**💉** _So wake up sleepy one_

_It's time to save your world_ **💉**

\--- ******* \---  
\--- _Later that Day _\---

"_She wore blue velvet, bluer than velvet was the night, softer than satin was the light from the stars,_" Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton recently played on the radio while you were widely awake in the very wee hours of midnight, honing up your ears to dedicatedly room the honey-mouthed vocalist's vindictively tempting voice accenting the very lyrics.

Stinging shut your eyelids to constrict its fleshily facial muscles to rest and solemnly dedicating its serene hour of eavesdropping the vintage songs from the last two years when nobody around you could contagiously reckless hex you with a headache or glassy tiredness was possibly the most refreshing therapy for insomnia and loneliness. The genuine sentiment of the divinely yearned tranquility pierced the very kitchen. The feather-soft horripilation perkily rabid cropped your delicate epidermis even underneath your fresh pair of pyiamas you have dared to wear twice after the apocalyptically vengeful, bloodthirstily elating nemesis of your former manager, Cole Derek Lowe.

Ethereally timeless dynamic roller coaster of hours passing at summer breeze's pace gauged the dozens of meaningfully authentic, fiercely passionate discussions you and the British compatriot shared. The authentically meaningful gathers on the kitchen table even when the British compatriot didn't dare to graze a tiny bite from your freshly prepared meals except for the dozens glasses of water hydrating his organs and delightfully fleet satiating his appetite.

Even if the hot topic on the media like newspapers, radios and television's breaking news exceedingly monotonous was being objected to cease from its regular appearance, yet the authorities' oblivion to your bare hands whose pristinely delicate fingers crooked around a kitchen knife to banish the pearly precious life out of Cole Derek clouded them. They weren't aware of your persona. It was illegal to get rid off of somebody in the possibly bloodiest, the most sadistic way. You didn't have any other choice than banishing the life out of the drug cook with series of repetitively blood-curdling, villaniously potent stabs to plummet down his survival's chances. The last heart pulses to violently excited thud into his torso. The last breathing coursing through his nose. The final seconds and moments of his very life before his heart halted its frequently eager function to gear up his frail skeleton and muscles to contract and twitch even motioning. The final countdown, itself. The final destination of his ethereally sable, coated in eternal unnerve soul to aimlessly wander the expansive world.

Yet the neighbours haven't even questioned the godforsaken corpse inside the abandoned brothel. Little did they know who was staying behind the bloody knife and the dead body. The ideal match of the demise. Such a compatible and down-to-earth pairing. It resembled a blood-curdligly complacent landscape for the demons to cast in the darkest corners of the sites and surreptitiously imbibing with their bloodthirsty, villaniously eagle vermillion gemstones the relentlessly discrete, graphically explicit details illustrating the absolute reality's atrocity. Nobody still questioned between you and Timothy. Your home was the genuine sentiment of celestial tranquility and safety the most. You and the possessed priest played your own cards right. Just how it supposed to be.

Anyway there were certain versions to interpret specifically its true epitome of the played cards right especially in a case how to get away with a murder. Sooner or later, the murder's perperator is going to be detected and the goose is going to be cooked in your case. There were the fewest cases of homicide that have abided unsolved or rather so untouchable. More unsolved than certain conspiracy theories. More untouchable than the forbidden fruit in the heavenly Eden's garden.

Your rear perched on the cozy chair and channeling the smooth sway of your hips at the smoothly calm, sweet rhythm of the music and syncing the breathtakingly velvety spell bewitchingly spellbinding you. The low hum of the radio accompanied the full moon's full twilight conveniently unique streaming through the panes. The true prospect of the nocturnally nirvanic paradise. The intoxicating tranquility. Overlooking the uneven monotonously tiresome car engines' drones pitching the neighborhoods and the sheer acceleration of the vehicle' sleek ghost through the concrete motorway.

A vague, sympathetically beaming smile adapting to elaborate upon your naturally rosy-coloured, brim lips and lowly humming to escort the song's lyrics.

"_She wore blue Velvet, bluer than velvet was the night,_" Ushering to dart your tongue to docilely thoughtless licking your upper and lower lip whilst chanting the lyrics along with the singer, himself, fiendishly graceful whiffled the incoherent soft breeze of indulgence to prominently thud the kitchen walls.

"Y/N," Oblivious to the older gentleman's very presence extraordinarily populating the kitchen and the mousily conjugated masculine, familiar footsteps ghostwriting the carpeted floor on his mission to surreptitiously approach you without your knowledge unless your sharp intuition and purely invincible instincts to exceedingly chime you about prejudices and eventual delusions that solely fog your eyesight and perspective, was namely eliminated by the low hum of the recently playing song on the name blending your chant, opting to craft a broadly beaming, gentlemanly charming smile at the corner of his mouth. "Rare bird!"

"_Softer than satin was the light from the stars_," Gracefully fluent chant bubbled from the beginning of your strawberry-coloured tongue, lingering the ominously iron-willed contraction of your eyelids' muscles blocking the tinting medley of nuances images flashing inevitably past your embers.

"Y/N!" Thickness devilishly heinous coated the ambitious Monsignor's throat, struggling to conjugate your name's pleasantly melliflous vowels and syllables formulating the whole exemplar flicked up his cinnamon brown-topaz embers on you and gravely pensive humming behind your back until channeling uneven, embarrassingly demanding his mammoth, pallid hand to claw sympathetically your shoulder blade.

"Oh!" In the meantime, your gaze shifted abruptly to the mammoth hand's owner and dawdling solemnly eminent its beamingly vibrant smile blooming across your profile, followed by a demurely girlish, guttural giggle to stifle the awkward News's megawatt tension stringing stubbornly the elasticity of your very intimate proximity. "Timothy! What a surprise to see you widely awake in the middle of the night!"

“You can’t sleep, right?” Seating alongside you as his rear perched on the chair inching your distance in less than a handful of inches after jostling it up towards you and boring his cocoa brown bijous into yours vindictively ingenuous, kindling the celestially aureate flames glazing your soul.

“Yep.” Ushering your head to diligently agreeable bob in the strong agreement to reaffirm your position, then he gingerly attempted to formate an appropriate suggestion to throttling the strenuous boredom and the lethal intertness momentarily. “I just have been always like that except for Briarcliff when I felt dead tired due to the heavy medicaments and the profligate condition.”

“_She wore blue velvet__, b__luer than velvet were her eyes__! __Warmer than __m__ay her tender sighs__, l__ove was ours__!_”

“Fair enough! I’m genuinely happy you aren’t having the blues and struggling to collect its necessary break.”

“Yeah, it was an uphill climb and I’m candidly happy it’s all over,” A heavy sigh expelled from your ribcage and diabolically steeping to recollect your hurricane of thoughts and sorting your mind neatly to shimmer its fantastic brilliance of the diamonds of the patchy chaos that has vaporized fleetingly.”But Timothy, I don’t want to use you and just to dump purposelessly your efforts for something the least it deserves to happen.”

“You aren’t using me. You’re a ray of sunshine that deserves the world.” The haphazardness of maneuvering his virginally long, meaty fingers to snatch a fistful of H/C locks to tuck them kindly behind your flexible ear, shuttling the paradoxally warm, coherent waves of unconditional love, sought-after warmness and gracious consolation spiking the electrifying goosebumps waltzing your delicate epidermis to linger. “What is urging you to think like that you use me?”

“My ex whom we didn’t have a grave relationship after my parents’ deaths and the high school was still there wasn’t very fond of the idea of earning my own money in such a specific method.” Muffling the stray, foreign noises after canalizing your pearly front teeth to nibble the raw spot of your bottom cherub lip docilely, bizarrely seductive gauging the aspiring Monsignor’s knit of his dark, thick eyebrows to incise precisely the cusp to the bridge of his nose. “He called me a selfish twat and thinking that I was doping myself even if he’s the one whom I caught once coked and did licentious things behind my back. Without my knowledge. Without letting me know about his discreetly stealthy attitude.” The stark heartbreak after recalling the vividly graphic flashbacks of your past relationship with your ex-boyfriend whom you traded a particular relationship, rolled up its ball in toxic venom and then conveying nauseous casing to sousing the pit of your stomach, your smile was replaced with an eerie flat line blurring prominently crucial each discrete inkling of mirth and the blitherness falling off from your façade, unmasking your twinkle-toed happiness and leaking the real domino of the dejection. “Without letting me to know about his ambiguous life and the secret affair he’s having with my ex-manager’s ex-girlfriend. That lassie didn’t like me and they both once spat into my face for being so selfish that I earn my money specifically after he started disappearing more often.”

“I’m really sorry to hear all that, Y/N!” All of a sudden, the devotional member of the clergy’s unintentional whisper curled upon his upper pale-pinkish lip, lingering the extension of his colossal, sallow hand quivering to yank featherly-soft one of your smaller, creamy to fasten its grapple, gulping the heinously chaotic thickness plastering hypodermically his Adam’s apple.

“He didn’t even respect my emphatic decision to support myself and my grandparents. I didn’t have other choice and I was a minor. I needed those money to help them live their final moments in starkly moderate financial atmosphere. I know I’m the black sheep but thanks to those money,” Bare melancholy greatly blending the altruistically gentleman compassion glimmering into the possessed clergyman’s cocoa brown-topaz cabochons, channeling to follow each short-lived, nevertheless, preciously-clad moment of its body language’s motion and divulgence. Twin fat crystalline tears timidly twinkled unknowledgeable onto your lower eyelids, balefully villainous intimidating to trickle down your well-carved, chubby cheeks. “I’m living a much better life where I can have food along a decent lifestyle like average household would have that’s born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I’m just happy I realized our relationship’s goose was being cooked by the destiny and I exited its toxicity to burden my shoulders and infectiously submerging my mind and heart by keep telling me I deserve better.”

“You really deserve much better, Y/N! I’m happy I found you.” Generous bedaubs of unhealthily whitish fingertips planting its heartmeltingly emboldening touches coated its thin rivulets shimmering onto his flesh, foreshadowing the aftermaths to repatriating the tears’ stream, sluggishly buffing the contagiously breathtaking, reassuringly optimistic smile curved upon his baby-pinkish, brim lips. “I don’t know much stronger person than you are, little bird!”

“You haven’t being through such hell except your family didn’t approve your idea to join the priesthood after receiving God’s initial urgent call.”

“_Ours a love I held tightly__! __Feeling the rapture grow__ l__ike a flame burning brightly__, b__ut when she left, gone was the glow of__!_” The song on the radio dawdled up its play as Bobby Vinton’s entincingly lofty, honey-mouthed voice accenting the lyrics by rhyme and the vibrantly sunny glow of the song infectively interpenetrated the brassly strong-willed refrain to mewl a blatantly low-spirited sob.

“Believe me, your honesty and your wonderful strength and versatile stamina built such a celestial angel! One of a kind angel!” Crumpling the built heat to hypodermically powder your cheeks with ticklish pinkness healthily promising, inviting, the heartwarmingly candid words of the friendly nickname melted your heart. “I don’t care about your past and whatever you used to work so that to earn money in such nefariously promiscuous way just to afford the essential supplies to strive for your survival. Your present persona matters way more than anything.” Registering to knead on repetitively restless, ruthlessly soothing circles your brittle knuckles and the tender flesh of your fist with his frail, protective fingertips. “Come on, little bird! Better to reflect on your present and what you’re currently possessing.”

“I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry about the past and whatever burdens your shoulders!” The gentlemanly beneficent offer of his solely free hand to convey its friendly reminder to you, formulating its outstandingly complex context of the offer for a dance until the song’s epilogue and it was replaced with other chanson that couldn’t appeal to either of you. “Wouldn’t you mind a small dance, would you?”

“Of course not, Timothy!” A sheepishly coy giggle bubbled up from your throat and delightfully jointing his colossal, veiny hand and lifting up your rears from your recent seats, in order to sync every soothingly smooth rhythm of the song and registering your feet to shuffle in brief, angelically malleable footsteps ghosting the carpeted floor. Knotting your fingers in the welcomingly promising, secure grip of your bonded hands as a result of extending your satin arms and molting into the chanson’s rhythm and the pearly precious moment you exchanged amidst the most unique, regardless how shoal it could endure its elapsing hourglass of the descending sand to immerse the surface. “Are you on fire in the dancing?”

“Not exactly, but I just wanted to share it with you, Y/N!” The silver-tongued British lilt punctured his politely frank motive foreshadowing the gentlemanly dumbfounding request that nonplussed you and a thick layer of chromatically vibrant hues domino fused to illustrate your real profile. “I can be incredibly clumsy in the dancing, but it’s worth it.”

“It’s worth it with somebody you really emulate to have compatitability.”

“_Blue velvet__ b__ut in my heart there'll always be__ p__recious and warm, a memory__ t__hrough the years__!_”

“It’s true!” A self-consciously ticklish, fiendishly mischievous grin twisted across his handsome facial attributes and spotlighting remarkably his light-heavy wrinkles beneath the unhealthily wan veneer blanching his façade of his natural skin tone. “You are once in a blue moon, little bird!”

“Aw, really?”

“I truly mean it, Y/N!”

“Timothy, you’re a priest and,” The series of stutters slipping sloppily sleek of your berry-coloured tongue during your revelation, dropping your dainty chin on top of his broad, muscly shoulder, in spite of the huge difference in your heights. You have never had any crush on a clergyman unless the nefariously infernal snake pit that was well-known for relentlessly confining criminally insane nobodies to the general population’s community and welfare under the name Briarcliff graced you with an ambiguous destiny. On one hand, the exuberant inaniation to resume skipping your regular slumber habits under the form of spending your hectic daily schedule to be refilled with brief breaks in the common room and the regularly diligent hardwork in the bakery. On other hand, you met somebody whom you genuinely deeming to hang the moon. Or rather, who was the only God’s messenger that was sent to you to grant you with myriad of divine felicity, angelical love and sweltering warmness. “Isn’t it a bit unholy to make such confessions,”

“Shu, shu, shu, darling!” Manifesting to plant a tenderly mellow, cherubically reassuring kiss on top of your head and his other arm lingering its buckle restlessly to clip circa your middle, murmuring sweet nothing into your vulnerable ear, whereas his British lilt never ceased to astound you and to spike its tempest of horripilation to stormily shameless entwining your overall skin on your arms and legs. “It doesn’t matter if I’m the president or the Monsignor or even your co-worker. As much as God loves me and trusts me to not do criminally rabid things that are under no circumstances in my case, I’m always ready to be outspoken.” Clearing smoothly his throat when ushering his only free arm to secure your middle and buckle its grapple categorically, a low hum in approval elaborated his mouth and rubbing the small of your back gently, completely helplessly melting in the tight, kindhearted embrace you formatted together. “I love you, little bird!” How long it’s been since somebody has outspokenly confessed to you the little three words that spoke volumes behind its genuinely cordial context? How long it’s been since you would depict a holy man’s naturally nude pink, deliciously plumpish lips to sloppily straightforward drip its sweet juices of the sinfully forbidden revelation that stayed between both of you as your little secret? The very undertones of the megawattly meaningful, authentically romantic revelation exposed the real tremble of his voice.

“I love you way more than you can picture, Timothy! I really don’t have any idea what would have happened if I didn’t meet you. Probably I’d have died in that snake pit.”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _A Few Days Later or So _\---

\--- _4th of December, 1964_ \---

“Please, save his life!” Reciting in an iteratively disquietude the murmur under your breath whilst folding your legs and manifesting to knit your pristinely delicate fingers, anticipating for the average pool of crystalline liquid to boil in the kettle set on one of the hotplates of the cooker, in order to pour yourself a cup of jasmine tea and blending it with honey and modicum of lemon to enrich luxuriously the real flavor of the liquid. A straight line dogmatically buffed past your nude pink mouth and struggling to obscure the very hopes of optimism and nirvanic salvation via the exorcism, whereas the frequent sheepish quiver of the furnitures and the paraphernalia adorning the kitchen didn’t eventually halt at all. Tingling its alarming tones into your ears, bearing a semblance of a hand lugging its sufficiently long fingernails to scuffing roughly, frequently sluggish wood until it descended wholly to the edge after the dozens of great deal of efforts to inscribe its marked territory the owner.

A quarter an hour ago Father James in the company of Father Malachi and Dr. Roth arrived inside your property to banish the vile essence out of Timothy’s frail skeleton with great deal of efforts. Due to their ominously stringent instruction to not comfortably assist them during the conjuration of Timothy, throughout you couldn’t help but following childlikely mousy their guidance. You didn’t have other choice. The realistically grotesque illustration of the afflictively tormented physically and mentally Monsignor stubbornly coherent soiled your vision, train of thoughts and your flimsy heart.

Ocean of realistically graphic, distressfully discouraging scenarios flashed vehemently in your hurricane of thoughts. Bestowing the psychiatrist Dr. Roth and the both priests a sufficient trust that was approximately emulating to rely on their best efforts and fantastic job to resuscitate the true spirit of the British compatriot, your attempts to still the ominously pigheaded hopes the vile essence to dwell out of your friend’s large frame promptly and then get back to his normal life minimalized the starkly remorseless, bloodthirsty pessimism.

“Scumbags! Scumbags!” The expletives repeatedly cut coherently through the kitchen and your bedroom’s secure walls, catching you off guard when you lifted your rear up to check on the kettle, attempting to swallow hard the bittersweet lump thickly coating your feminine Adam’s apple. The ferociously antagonistic, infernally deep voice inexorably deflated joyously sardonic the possessed Monsignor’s wickedly sinister intentions that were delivered out solely in the fiendish language as the demon crudely flagrant reined his muscles and cells to be forcefully commanded of uttering unspeakably unthinkable exemplars. “Your game is reining off gradually as I can see, you little pigs! If you win, you will eat my hat!”

“Uh oh! Hopefully the demon doesn’t play his own cards right.” Heavy, jaded sigh expelled from your fragile chest whilst your E/C bijous landed on the simmering pool of translucent liquid that partly immersing the surface of the silver entity. Darting pensively your wet, berry-coloured tongue to laden its hydrating lick your lower and upper brim lips, consequently you ushered one of your petite, flimsy hands’ fingers to glide to halt abruptly the currently zapping hot plate and preparing yourself a clean, unused teal polka dot canvassed mug, in order to pour its heaty stream of the healthy liquid and enrichening its flavor with squeezing mildly a lemon and spoonful of honey to blend its breathtakingly natural savor and curling your fingers around a silver spoon to stir the beverage and your only free elvish hand channeling the kitchen sink’s faucets to submerge the already used kettle.

Yet, the haphazardness of the incessant tremor of the nigh furnitures and entities harshly composed the ode of the restless rowdiness pealing around you.

A few minutes of inaction and eagerly anticipating the temperature of the happily hot healthy beverage to drop perpetually, meanwhile, the furnitures and the entities halted in the stopand shepherded you to dash out of the kitchen and venture up inside your bedroom at the prospect of the senseless British aristocrat escorted by the senior man of the cloth along with his younger co-worker and the psychiatrist.

“Timothy!” The sea of pinched broadened stares transfixed on you squinted up to follow each motion of your trembling muscles when you registered to hunker down past the double bed and surveying in a scrutiny the senseless body of the British aristocrat. “Did you bash the demon out of his body?” When the German-American doctor was pumping series of CPRs to the ambitious Monsignor’s toned, muscular torso to acknowledge explicitly his condition and in case to be pretty aware of the aftermaths of the exorcism, the eerie sleepy and prim smile burnished upon his chapped, nude pink mouth.

“I’m guessing and that’s why I’m giving CPRs to the recent prey of spiritual possession.”

“Look what, Doctor Roth! You and the priests accompanying you are truly responsible for his very welfare. I can’t even picture what it would be to be on the front page of the newspaper bolding its title the director of Briarcliff dies as a result of heart attack in a former falsely committed patient’s home.”

“Miss, I’m assuring you Brother Howard will be fine! He needs some rest just to see,”

“Father James, there is a method to acknowledge his recent condition!” Cutting off curtly the redhead, consequently you leant your earlobe past the British compatriot’s brittle chest and the featherly-soft, frigidly heartwarming heart pulse unevenly thudded in its confine while your elvish, weathered hands clawed humbly the bed sheets.

Was that a heart beat? Was he still alive or that’s just his final moments even when his eyelids curtained shut and an emotionlessly prim, still peaceful smile nailed the corner of his lip?

“Timothy!” Then you drifted to cup the flabbergastingly icy, pallid complexion in the palms of your surprisingly warm, gracefully silken hands of the consciousless older gentleman, a woefully wry smile permeating across your lips.

**Author's Note: Another cliffhanger which I rather preferred to amuse the readers with conspiracy theories what might happen after the exorcism of Timothy and will they come true after 28th chapter. **

**Do you rather prefer possessed or normal Timothy and why? I'd like to hear your opinions.**

**Likewise, I hope you like and enjoy the new chapter as well. Don't forget if you liked it a lot to leave your feedback.**


	28. This Is What Makes Us Happy

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _Flashback _\---  
\--- _20 Years Ago _\---  
\--- _13th of May, 1944 _\---

_"You have to be kidding me for your wild dreams, Timothy!" The older sibling from the Howards, Seth managed to fashion the flat of his mammoth, parchment hand to mischievously affable patting his younger brother's shoulder blade as their figures barely inched due to their perpendicular seats arrangement on the dining table. "It's such a blue moon to possibly envision yourself as something that is as revered as the English Queen or the American president, himself." Elaborating a blatantly guttural, healthily jovial sniggers choiring John along with Jacqueline Dunbar and Trevor Clancy parting their lips into soft O leaking their fish and chips-stained grins and flicking up their pair of gemstones to imbibe the younger Howard's parchment, youthful complexion darkening its naturally ghostly pale shade into profusely healthy, unconditionally vibrant scarlet. Ruthlessly childlike embarrassment etched his very facial attributes._

_A quarter an hour after the whole family have gathered on the dining table in the opulently cozy, heavenly welcoming dining room to populate their seats for dinner time, subsequently galore of mere and complex conversations crossed the crossroads of the nocturnal daily routine about the daily lives of Jacqueline Dunbar and her husband, besides their children evolving the youngest additions to the wealthy household. A quarter an hour of profoundly blatant, hedonsitically delightful slurs, commonly encountered through the dining crossroads of the dining room from the indulgent bite of the dinner meal to the instantaneously greedy swig of a goblet pooled bloody red liquor and its incredibly breathtaking, mouth-watering sip sweetening the berry-coloured tongues, throughout hydrating the organs and the pits of the stomachs._

_Eventually Seth was a young man in his very young, beloved adulthood that equated to no older than nineteen-year-old gentleman whose physique somewhat candidly eye-catching emulated to his younger brother, Timothy, due to their short mops of silkenly glossy, photogenic ally exquisite chestnut strands framing authentically their profiles. Seth's outstandingly glowing lapis lazuli jewels kindled the very flames of his one of a kind nature and the scintillatingly vibrant warmness piercing his indiscernible jet-black pupils. His unblemished porcelain skin tone matching exquisitely with his charming, nubilely youthful facial attributes. His height slightly inscribed his anatomy to tower Timothy with a handful of inches due to their innocenous age gap that parted their maturity and perspective in general._

_What the British siblings candidly shared in common was their keen enthusiasm into Classic and English Literature, besides the cricket games staged outdoors whether in the hideously exuberant rainy or otherwise pleasantly sunny climate swaddling them promisingly. In spite of their innocenuous age difference, the older brunet has already started attending college for a year at least and his marks were prominently dropping due to his sonly established serious relationship with a lassie circa his age and having regular dates after school without the knowledge of the Trevor and Jacqueline at all._

_It wasn't easy for the young gentleman to moderately harmonize his young love for a young woman that was exactly his age and his authentically remarkable studies. Every youngster either dropped out of school due to their meagerly lukewarm enthusiasm to resume their studies or otherwise struggling to caulking the patchy spiderweb of seams of their behind-the-scenes and outdoors lives as well._

_Whereas the youngest addition to the fortune household was actually Anna Rosemary Howard whose age gap she exchanged even with the youngest male of the Howards was a handful of years solely. Or rather, interpeted freely to tick its sheerly innocenuous age range in two years._

_The young lady's skin tone exquisitely matched with her dainty, childlike beauteous facial attributes as it was ghostly pale. A healthily ghost pale pattern. Unlike her brothers, the young lady has indisputably devilish inherited her mother's pleasantly nude pink, insatiably plump lips that could blur any patterns of bold despodency or on the contrary the pure euphoria etching to accent her adorable dimples and crinkling elegantly her lower eyelids. Her sapphire blue minerals kindled its vibrantly glowing sanctums of childlike goodwill and poetic intelligence, besides the inexorably sheer ingeniousness maneuvering its spiral circulation around her indiscernible jet-black pupils. Her halo ringlet of cinnamon brown velvet locks descended her shoulders and exquisitely curtaining her profile. Last but not least, her height could be gauged no more than 5'4 and her body structure emulating to doubtlessly average._

_Unlike the other family members of the Howards that were fully aware of the consequences of the priesthood that was gearing up the future plans of Timothy, the youngster seemed the most anodyne person that has ever seated on the kitchen table during the family dinner nights that was allegedly the mission to harmonize their tough, long days into a sorely painless gathering._

_Unlike John whose passion in the studies didn't cease when he was behind the scenes after his late arrivals at home, due to the ethereally timeless social life he developed with a sympathetic girl circa his age after finishing their classes, the young man was the future man of the cloth's seniors that equated to full few years. His light chestnut hair gingerly capped his scalp paired with his indiscernible dark cocoa brown cabochons igniting the very flames of his altruistically bright, balmy nature leaking through his indiscreet sable pupils mirroring the manipupated reflection. He stood approximately his younger brother's height, in spite of their lesser age gap they traded altogether. His extraordinary lusterly milky skin tone accented his facial attributes._

_"What is wrong with having the wish to become a priest?" Manoeuvring to incline quizzically his eyebrow spotlighting prominently his great bewilderment at Seth's headstrong disapproval and incredulity blending phenomenally fiendish against the divinely gold dreams that drastically amplified its vivid flashes into the reverie scenarios blotching the very thoughts._

_"Becoming a priest?" The haphazardness of the middle-aged lady's austerely frigid, dry-throated inquiry accentuating her purely murderous incredulity into her youngest son's divinely golden dreams for his future life manoeuvred her subsequent dramatically frigid pause to be stunged while curling her delicate, palish fingers to buff its soft brace around the goblet and lifting it weightless entity to take a childishly innocent sip of the scrumptious red liquor lacing her tongue tip. The relentlessly icy blizzard of the uncomfortable doldrum pierced the very walls of the dining room as if an invincibly huge storm assaulted the Howards' property and leaving them not only beyond overwhelmingly speechless, but also deplorably homeless. "You must be joking, Tim!"_

_"Becoming a priest is one of the toughest and the most regrettable decisions ever to do in your own short life, son!" The huskily inebriated, yet emotionless undertones extraordinarily billowed up Trevor's bizarrely velvety declaim, squiting up his lapis lazuli gemstones at the youngest gentleman and offering him a primly sympathetic, vaguely foggy smirk plunging the corner of his wine-stained lip. "It's like feeding the tigers and the most vicious animals for us and thinking you are having great chances to survive unless their wolfy hunger and lividness makes them consuming you in a single bite."_

_"I'm just wanting to help the people and to be their beacon of the light and goodwill! Isn't it too simple to explain to you my wishes?"_

_"There is nothing wrong with helping the others," An Inevitably cold-blooded pause dramatically blasted the kitchen table while the banker managed to sip of his wineglass genuinely idle to stifle the dozens of frustrated noises to rumble up the cells. "But you don't realize that you have to keep yourself utterly unstained and not having a wife by your side and children. Mostly elderly men that could be your grandfathers are dedicating their lives to the church instead young men like you and your brothers to serve the miserable cloth of chastity."_

_"Mom and dad, what is a priest?" Through recurring hiccups bizarrely coating the slyly hideous thickness beneath her throat's tender muscles shield, the brunette knitted together her thin, elegantly dark eyebrows to the bridge of her nose and darting an insecurely pleading gaze at the wed pairing to harvest the luxurious crop of accurate answers she was eagerly looking for. "Are they good people?" Anna Rosemary's lacking knowledge about the ecclesiastically sacred title and its sequence of chastity behind the scenes mamifested to arouse her fiery interest to discover more about the questionable future career of choice of Timothy, whereas Jacqueline and Trevor shifted their abrupt attention to their only daughter, offering her an amicably healthy, breathy chuckles shortly before maneuvering their waltzing fingers around the goblets to be lifted and gingerly quivering past their facial muscles until their lips parted softly._

_Of course, the brothers of the Howards couldn't be more intensifyingly vast dumbfound by their youngest sibling's childlikely blameless inquisitiveness at all! Of course, that was about to flow its bonus questions and utterances that could be deposited inwardly for the behind the scenes! Anyway that was another family dinner gathering like each evening. The morbidly weak oblivion rumbled up the patchy hollow of hopelessness to cease the very memories of the horde._

_"Sweetheart, the priests are good people even if there are amidst them terrible, rotten apples!" In the meanwhile, the youngest gentleman's pristinely deft, marbled fingers registered to toy with his silver fork and absent-mindedly ticking its disquieting clank against the flimsy entity's surface, dawdling his coffee brown big, rotund depths imbibing the landscape of his parents explaining simply to the young girl about the genuine notion of the word. "Moreover, God calls them at different ages, in order to join the church and take their vows and serving their duties. Once they are solemnly taking their first vows of chastity and taking their lives into their own hands to deprive themselves from the freedom even if their youth offers them, therefore they don't have any time for friends, families and lovers."_

_"I understood." The instanteously razor-edged perspective of the young girl assimilated and fathomed the true notion of the hallowedly authentic exemplar, the suddenness of the adolescent lifting up his rear from his chair and slowly but surely scurring out of the dining table caught off guard the majority of the family members numbering the adults."Thank you for explaining to me!"_

_"Always for you, Anna!" Once the future clergyman managed to flee the dining room and escorted by ocean of uncomfortably inquisitive embers glazing his back, consequently a medley of childlike misunderstanding, diabolical misery and spine-chilling alienation lacerated furiously his flimsy heart and steeping its myriad of glassily crystal fragments into a lake of heartbreak frouncing in the pit of his stomach icily inevitable._

_What it unnerved more than anything him was his parents not embracing his youngest son's future golden ambitions that weren't linked to his older siblings' otherwise. A foreign sentiment crawled momentarily to palpitate up its contagious adrenaline through his venomous veins and hypodermically heating his muscles. What it conveyed its stormy tempest of vigorously invincible, incredibly untouchable emotions and feelings equating to the relentlessly unholy heartbreak and baleful fiasco of assimilating and comprehending the concept of Timothy's future career to differ._

_The monumental world was a site of the crudely cold hell of opulent crops he's harvesting of frustration and misunderstanding and ghostwriting his timidly brittle fingers to daub circa the impossible even when his siblings and parents were exceedingly aware the hallowed book had being repetitively re-read. Or otherwise, the site must be emphatically labeled with the outstanding, grotesquely realistic exemplar of hell where the unwelcomingly chromatic, wicked demons masking the real identities of the people as dominos darkened their façades and the wee inkling of false hopes and frigid bertrayal accentuating their once delivered out promises._

_\--- ******* \---_

_\--- End of Flashback ---_

_\--- Back to the Reality ---_

_\--- A Couple of Hours Later ---_

_\--- 5th of December, 1964 ---_

_Just a couple of hours of dynamic roller coaster descending its vagons through the welcomingly promising events situated back in the eve of the twilight, the men of the cloth and the psychiatrist have retired from your flat and left you and Timothy to collect sufficiently healthy rest throughout the evening hours._

_After acknowledging the amibitious Monsignor's current status due to the unevenly sluggish, nevertheless devilishly megawatt heart pulses pumping his toned torso and then gushing down freely, recklessly its refreshing oxygen through his tiny, flexible nostrils, a coherent speck of relief unceasingly inscribed its ink curves to highlight its majestic exemplar's sentiment embroidering hypodermically your chest. Even the second conjuration of the formerly possessed holy man couldn't guarantee its meager chances to elaborate an unevenly reluctant blink after reining off his frail eyelids, depositing its lethally succumbing weight of the slumber after the spontaneous blackout when the hired exorcists and psychiatrist played their own cards right with the dozens of recited prayers. There was a hope and there's still hope._

_Notwithstanding the circumstances, in the next a couple of hours you're presumed to get ready for work after having a week-off. The very thought of getting back to work certainly plagued its scorge of unbeatable sentiment to gyrate your hurricane of thoughts to crinkle its ball of discomfort inexorably meandering in the pit of your stomach. Even though your workplace was amidst your fewest least favorite locations and the breaks were meager, at least the week-off from serving your duties modestly mousy was even more worth than ever._

_A week away from the infectiously venomous plague of pressure, immense stress and undeservedly threadbare tissues of nerves could formate your ordinary day as a waitress in the cafeteria. A week away from the ocean of blatantly mewled childishly whimsical babbles of the customers tingling alarming tones into your ears and eventually conveying its coherent waves of spiking your delicate epidermis with frostily electrifying goosebumps._

_Beyond peacefully drifted off asleep and ominously obdurate swimming through the tempest of your abysmally tempting, inviting slumber and its divinely unrealistic reveries tinting your pinched closed eyes' vividly flashy pictures flashing into your vortex of thoughts and jumpcutting sooner or later, your nude pink, angelically cherub lips blatantly conjugated its dozens of subconscious light snores hovering up in the thin air of the living room. The abruptness of slurring angelically welcoming, affectionate peck compressed to the crown of your head dimly caught you off guard in no time when your E/C depths heinously perpetually struggled to elaborate its credulous blinks until you landed them on the much taller figure standing before the convenient sofa._

_"T-Timothy?" Once your E/C roundish cabochons broadened to scan promptly the larger frame that immediately participated in your company by seating on the edge of the sofa, consequently your angelically cherub lips opted to buff its fashionably humble, sympathetically girlish smile gracing your façade. The heart pulses' acceleration escalated rabidly rapid once the British compatriot paid a visit to the living room to behold him in the very wee hours of the morning. Yet the nocturnally starless blackness streamed bountifully in the site. Little did you know the survival chances of the exorcism that could be numbered even a second one could bestow its gracefully unique, pearly precious life to its former victim of spiritual possession to pursue eagerly his own ambitions and celestially wild dreams. "I'm really happy you made it up to there."_

_"I'm rather happy you supported me and sacrificed your entire week to take a good care of me even when sometimes I deserved it the least, Y/N." A feebly cherubically, broad smile adorned the older gentleman's unhealthily pallid, young-looking complexion whilst spearing your gaze with his smoky quartz as you raised an arch of your eyebrow perkily._

_"Don't say that you didn't deserve it!" In the meanwhile, he ushered his colossal, masculinely creamy hand to yank your petite fiercely doting and his fingers knotting the rigid mountains and mild callouses of your fist underneath his swan thumb and fingertips circulating incessantly its elegant massage to emboldeningly soothe you on reflex. "You never fail to astonish me, Timothy!" Licking greedily sheepish your mouth after lolling your dry and strawberry-coloured tongue to smear its dew to lacquer your upper and lower oral tissues, his velvety British lilt's potently razor-edged emphasis of your name skewered your delicate flesh to swelter. The haphazardness of healthily bright pink hue darkening your young-looking, refreshingly wonderful facial attributes contagiously tickled your oral slit to braden in a jiffy._

_In a long minute of cozily warm doldrum conveniently idle settling in the living room was dearly treasured by you and Timothy. Sometimes the cozily warm doldrums were strongly appreciated even with the favorite people where the body language and the maintenance of eye contact spoke volumes and leaking its vibrantly bright nuances of the illustration. Sometimes the hush could be a severely meaningful, authentically reliable medication for galore of symptoms that were associated not only physically, but also mentally._

_The same old devotional member of the clergy was back. Again. Regardless the viciously inescapable spiritual possession engulfing each functioning ounce of his anatomy or his perfectly mere condition, consequently the aspiring Monsignor grew on you abruptly. Spontaneously abruptly._

_"Rara avis, I'm planning something really emphatic to take in my hands!" Almost a distinctive mumble bubbled up from his Adam's apple, lingering his innocently seductive, scintillatingly affable ogle pronging yours as his fragile fingertips daubed its circulations of massages on your fist, melting into his hallowedly nirvanic touch._

_"What are you up to, Timothy?"_

_"It's not really an easy decision, but I'm deadly serious about it." Emitting a heavy sigh at the top of his brittle lungs, thus you were all ears to his categorical decision to be eavesdropped. "From this morning, I'm officially resigning from the church and I don't see any eventual potential to invest into the church and everything else that was once under my responsibility."_

_"W-What about Jude?" Overwhelming nonplus and brilliantly vast bewilderment foamed fiercely your E/C orbs, whilst worrying your front pearly white teeth to ruthlessly subconscious, reckless nibble the raw spot of your bottom lip._

_"She has own life and dreams. I won't deprive her from her own dreams and life." Clearing his throat after muffling its hoarseness with the palm of his solely free colossal, virginally milky hand, throughout he flamed its divinely gilt benevolence to illuminate his very persona. "I'm having still hopes to construct my own new life with new dreams and ambitions."_

**Author's Note: And here we go with a flashback illustrating Timothy's adolescence where he earned rapidly the disapproval from his family to serve the cloth of chastity. Furthermore, I'd like to apologize for the sloppy and uninteresting chapter, howsoever, I tried my best to please you with some action and dialogues that are worth even for a brief chapter.**

**Furthermore, I'm genuinely blissful that Timothy is no longer suffering from spiritual possession though I also miss his villanious character.**

**If you genuinely liked this chapter, don't forget to leave a feedback! I'd like to hear your thoughts! **


	29. Newfangled Catharsis

** ** ** **

** ** ** **

** **✞ ** ** _We're all searching_

_for someone whose demons_

_play well with ours _ ** **✞** **

\--- ******* ****\---  
\--- _The Next Morning _\---

Once the following day became a victim of the early morning's celestially aureate, thickly vibrant mantle outcasting the baby blue sky and mounting up its peaks of the heavenly highlands, subsequently you and Timothy woke up bizarrely earlier than the usual as you were getting ready for the day, took individually a hot, steamy shower and sharing a long breakfast as Timothy's appetite leveled out abruptly. Yet the scale of lost pounds that were apprended to the holy priest's weight inscribed prominently its canvas of his bizarrely slender anatomy that towered yours.

The vibrantly sympathetic sun's coherent rays managed to pierce relentlessly sinister the kitchen window profusely filtering the room, whilst you and the older gentleman seated on the dining table. The marvelously mellifluous, everlasting birdsongs contorted across the façades as the rich composition of their elating ballad didn't vanish into the thin air since the very wee hours of the morning, in spite of the commonly frigid Boston early winter climate decrying its sharp reprimand to predominate over the late-autumn's surreptitiously dim inkling to cease from plastering its climate.

A quarter an hour behind the coherently secure walls of the kitchen swaddled cozily your very presences as your long fingers registered to cradle graciously the mugs of freshly brewed, happily steamy caffeine liquid pooling almost fully and permeating its vaguely silver, blissful smoke to engulf the rim of the cups. The plates of ordinary sandwiches ornamented with tomatoes, cucumbers and some cheese as the slice of bread was exquisitely buttered accompanied the very dining table though their meager distance inching with the cups of hot brown liquid.

"For how long did you consider that resignation?" Your Maryland lilt prominently punctured your posed question after the dozens of vowels and syllables promiscuously clashed for domination to construct one of the icebreakers to peter out the unevenly bone-chilling doldrum asphyxiating the site's walls. Squinting up your E/C bijous to prong graciously the aspiring Monsignor's coffee brown with a fashionably bashful smile embellishing your façades. The fiendishly sheer, inquisitive aroused interest to discover further his intentions and real motives behind his resignation of the diocese which he won't serve any longer and be reckoned as a member of the clergy.

"Once in a while since we met each other." Sluggishly buffing a broadly delicate, velvet smile plastering past the British aristocrat's naturally baby pinkish, scrumptiously plumpish lips, they curled at the logically rational utterance, hardly amenable to ebb off the intensity of the decibels. His virginally delicate, long fingers registered to lift the mug up to swig a handful of tiny, innocuous sips hydrating its infectiously scrumptious, bitter morning coffee's liquid lingering on his tongue tip.

Little did you know how such innocuous breakfast conversations and sharing mugs of coffee and breakfast dishes could be incredibly bewitching its profoundly vibrant vibes escorting you and the childishly gracious smiles blooming upon your mouths. How such little things that could be interpreted as doing chores or eminently arduously tiresome activities could be capable of bonding unceasingly potent you and the devotional member of the clergy?

Was that some kind of an invincibly untouchable, inexorable hex spellbinding you with the most insatiably contagious aftermaths? Nobody knew except the superb divine power to supervise its children of his creations even if they weren't the most pious and the kindest souls that have ever ghostwritten the world's inches.

"That's indeed intriguing! Haven't you thought about the aftermaths of your resignation as well?" In the meantime, you lolled pensively reckless your tongue to lick your upper and lower lip momentarily shortly before heaving the entity for a handful of guiltlessly sweet, infectiously bitter sips to mischievously tweaking the insides of your cheeks. Childlike inquisitiveness vindictively inevitable blazed your E/C minerals obdurately fierce to illuminate palishly its true nature of yours. "Huh?" Then your dainty, silken fingers maneuvered to reach for the sandwich and docilely amenable grazing its first bite as your pearly-white teeth grinded unceasingly stubborn until the sandwich transmuted into tiny, soft food chunks plastering the beginning of your tongue and smearing its chunks to embroider your teeth.

"I have thought about the aftermaths as well, Y/N!" The haphazardness of the British aristocrat's muffled gruffy, masculinely dry cough to clear his throat with the palm of his hand politely, throughout his coffee brown big, roundish embers shot a fleet glance at the window for a split second, worrying his front dearly white teeth to dawdle on his bottom angelically cherub lip. Gullible incredulity sharply inscribed your delicate, feminine facial attributes as you assimilated his low hum in response. "It won't cost me a lot and it will be rather better to not being a priest, because there are plenty of reasons."

"W-What urges you to be emphatic behind your decision that will be official?" Shortly before masticating the very second bite of the sandwich, throughout you managed your spidery fingers to cradle the sheerly lily-white napkin to bedaub gingerly, solemnly your greasy, sandwich-stained fingers and mouth immediately and then take a modestly lukewarm sip of the caffeine beverage. "What do you think you will benefit from pursuing different dreams than your golden one?"

"I just think it's a matter of question by judging my position and what it restricts me from in general." In the interim, the pious holy man manifested to knit his potent, dexterous fingers once his pristinely colossal hands perched on top of the kitchen table, worrying his front teeth to nibble the raw spot of his bottom baby-pinkish lip. "It isn't going to harm anyone or me if the resignation is a fact within a few hours only. It is just a question that I am keep asking myself after I met you, Y/N! It is indescribable what it feels like to be confined in your solemnly took vows and marrying your very soul and very body to the Lord."

"Mhm!"

“I just want to savor the very flavor of the life what has cooked for me, however, I turned a blind eye on that a long time ago when I was stubborn as a mule to listen to my family’s word and what will be the foreshadowed sequence.”

\--- *********** \---

\--- _An Hour Later or So_ \---

Just an hour after you and the aspiring Monsignor have finished your morning routine you’re going through daily since his breathtakingly authentic stay in your very property, consequently you both fled your home as you headed in totally different directions. Different divinely gilt ambitions pearly anticipated for your very presence to fulfill your forthcoming engagements fueling your chaotic daily schedules. Different dynamic roller coaster anticipated for its impending passengers to ride relentlessly agitated. Different newfangled surprises and wry woes anticipated to opt stumbling its warriors aiming to their current and daily goals.

Unlike you who had to get back to your work and fulfilling utterly your business duties diligently modest, the devotional member of the church was on other mission today. Consulting with Father Malachi and bestowing him his ultimate, categorical motives for his lethally final resginantion from the diocese and no longer longing to pursue childishly eager, headstrong his golden, power-hungry ambitions that were nothing than an argently lifeless lake of vacant hollows of hopes for celestially euphoric, abstractly satisfying future he’s plunged abysmally in its mistily profound, unknowledgeable.

The sheerly controversial fluctuation of a decision that may dazzlingly affect his life and solely would be paged up in the previous chapters of his sacred, sophisticated lifestyle of serving solemnly the diocese in the book of his life have refilled the patchy cavities of his vortex of thoughts eventually. The cloyingly insatiable flavor of the liberty from the sacred icons, the sacred façades he’s regularly set foot inside and his divinely spiritual marriage to God sweetened his tongue tip tenderly.

Shortly after the British compatriot have stepped inside his mentor’s office after his refreshing roam after passing galore of buildings, trees and an enormous crowd of strangers on their way to work, school or to their current cardinal destination, thereafter the private interaction between the both devotional holy men suffocated the very walls of the senior priest’s office.

“Timothy, you wanted to see me!” The reassuringly pleasant northern lilt of the older gentleman fashionably abraded his blunt utterance rumbling its lump up his Adam’s apple, ushering with his mammoth, ghostly pale hand his protégé to seat on the regally convenient wine red Lawson chair against his professional hemlock bureau. In the meanwhile, the obdurate attempts to obscure beneath its translucently subtle thin veil his beamingly welcoming, benevolently altruistic smile crudely blossoming upon his pale-pinkish, thin lips as they curled at each sloppily dripping vowel and syllable’s authentic exemplar.

“Y-Yes, Father! It won’t cost you more than five minutes to discuss it in a New York minute.” A heavy sigh expelled from the younger gentleman’s frail lungs as the unnerving adrenaline of his childlike self-consciousness contorted its substantial hoary cloud pumping into his veins and the purely icy disquietude pulsating into his frail skeleton, settling his masculinely mammoth, pristinely palish hands on top of the bureau, whereas his cocoa brown big, roundish bijous brilliantly lancing his mentor’s piercing gaze and stabilizing promisingly inviting the rich maintenance of eye contact, adequately colligating the twain of bijous intensifyingly. “It’s just something I can sincerely inform you as my final decision.” The velvety honey-mouthed undertones of the British compatriot’s coy mumble foaming his berry-coloured, wet tongue and enervating formidably his vocal tissues even underneath its meager decibels composing its own ballad tingled angelic anthems into Father Malachi’s flexible ears, almost heeding to the outstanding noise piercing the coherent walls of the site and waltzing altogether with the silver-tonguedly beatific morning birdsongs’ ode.

“I’m listening, Timothy! You know that you can always count on me to spill the beans of something that burdens your shoulders with its deadly severe weight!”

The profoundly vibrant, unqiue relationship the duo have authentically extraordinary thrived through the progressing weeks, months and years since their initial encounter just a couple of years ago delegated to seek council or consolation through the toughest times from one another even ventilating sophisticatedly extraordinary topics that drained out each word deftly constructed their perspectives’ opulent cataract of their positions. They can spend galore of restlessly stoic hours of expanding their confabs once the very flames of the topic’s anodyne level petered out and kindling the very wildfire’s savagely ferocious ingles cornering them to halt it. They can rely on each other in the toughest times. The unmistakenly megawatt platonic bond of resembling a father and a son paired the platonic pairing. After all, the senior religious man of the cloth could be amidst the last hopes of his protégé if the cloudy jet-black, remorselessly infernal darkness chased him down until the desk entirely ingested greedily mischievous his own prey.

“I know it won’t be easy to spill the beans, at least it will be one by one and perpetually as I was thinking over that question lately.”

“What do you mean specifically with this?” Even though the older man could softly inhale the feather-soft inkling of Timothy’s coyly sheepish insecurity to expel its burden encumbering hypodermically his shoulders about his final decision to resign from the church lastly after building a sufficiently rich career and obtaining truly unique experience through his interactions and his divinely hallowed grail. “If it is the crucial reason about your heavy heart, you are always welcome on second thought to change it immediately and eliminate from your routine!”

“I just don’t feel my heart any longer belongs to the church. It’s like a shadow chasing me eagerly until it consumes me with its relentless remorses that I am futilely pouring my heart into something that was once my crucial goal.” Clearing gruffily his throat after muffling with the palm of his feather-soft, parchment hand the dry, cold-blooded cough mischievously tickling his berry-coloured tongue, meantime, Father Malachi registered to dangle his meaty, strong fingers around the translucent glass of refreshingly lukewarm liquid to hydrate his organs and oral caverns after smooching gently the flimsy glass’s rim and wrapping his baby-pinkish, brim lips to starkly nimble broad its oral shaft. “Don’t get me wrong! It granted me plenty of memorable and untouchable moments I have shared through my experience, howsoever, the times are altering one of these days.” The suddenness of the older holy man yanking graciously a stark lily-white napkin to daub emphatically its crystalline dew-stained mouth was escorted docilely by a healthily breathy, cold-bloodedly attentive snicker seething up his throat, lingering his beamingly altruistic, vibrant smile’s spine-chillingly obdurate undulate past his oral slit. “One of these days when your perspective is starting to change for better or worse, depending on anybody’s worldview. One of these days when I’m starting to be agitated to unmistakenly question the difference between my contemporary position and the presumably forthcoming if my final decision empowers insistingly. I’m genuinely serious what I’m saying up to that moment.”

“I seriously comprehend your motives and what you’re trying to convey with its friendly reminder, nevertheless, is there something urging you to make that decision?” At the moment, Timothy channelized his throat muscles to flex once the unevenly bitter lump seethed until its insisting pleading motion conveyed its friendly reminder to be swigged gamely after its strong-willed quarantine. The ambience in general ever-lastingly unremitting intensified its coherently effacious barriers to confine the platonic pairing even when Timothy’s mind opted to be sort and his fresh vortex of thoughts to build its unremittingly rational, pretty explainable stimulus sardonically knelling him to harmonize his life and utterly dedicating his very soul to its majestically authentic, down-to-earth sanctum where he belonged the most promptly. “Are you planning to alter your life in much different direction? You know, you can always count on me to convey your worries and stimulus chiming you for something you wished for! I’m not here to judge you at all.”

“It’s the fact that there’s somebody that altered me and she helped me after the first exorcism and pampering me even when she’s way too kindhearted. I would like to resign from the church, no matter the aftermaths and whatever everybody will say about my final, categorical decision.”

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Several Hours Later or So_ \---

“_The English Monsignor, known for his two homelands resigned from the church earlier this morning after his private encounter with his mentor Father Malachi!_” The television news journalist’s nimbly brim lips twitched ever-lastingly at the breaking news’ stark construe associated with the former aspiring Monsignor’s resignantion from the diocese at last, whereas Frank and Jude were manifesting to snuggle on the cozily teal couch in the living room as his masculinely strong, securely muscly arms stably, promisingly braced his love interest’s upper back, nuzzling her delicate, alabaster nape of her neck vulnerably, affectionately. “_Notwithstanding his final decision, Timothy Howard served the diocese for a whole decade! According to him, he didn’t even regret an ounce of his definiteness and that wouldn’t bring him pangs of conscience in the further future._”

“Good for him!” The haphazardness of the former policeman’s strawberry-coloured, wet tongue demonically nimble crafting his bare, fiendish sarcasm as the decibels of his revelation plummeted down and tingling alarming tones into Judy’s vulnerable, petite ears and fixating his lapis lazuli embers flaring the vivid television screen glimmering its flashing light past their eyesights. “He better enjoy his free lifestyle with the unpriest clothing cradling his muscles.”

“Let his hair down as well, Frank! It’s actually a new beginning for him that he will sonly accommodate to.”

“I’m thinking that yar favorite Briarcliff patient is his hook, line and sinker of his soul!”

“No shit! I’m certain he has finally found his happiness that will rein him and his current value system.”

“God bless him and his Juliette!”

** **Author's Note: Since Timothy resigned from the church and there was a wee cameo of Frank and Jude, subsequently what are your thoughts on Timothy's resignation from the church and why? Do you think he made a wise decision as well? Do you think there's a possible chance the reader and Timothy to have a stable, deep friendship or at least keeping in touch with Frank and Jude even if they are supporting characters?** **

** **I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter as well! Don't forget to leave a feedback if you have sincerely enjoyed and liked it! Don't be shy! :))** **


	30. You Are Not Alone


      **✝ **
      _I still press your letters to my lips_
    

_And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss _ **✝**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _Two Weeks Later _\---  
\--- _20th of December, 1964 _\---

Once two weeks of a heavenly catharsis infectiously rumbled up to chase its recent prey of resigning from the church became a valley of prominently inexorable events, consequently a couple of days beatifically leaked its vibrantly divine light up to the winter holidays that couldn't be skipped just to be marked not only on the calendar, but also gauging each household's pearly dedication to celebrate it. Even though in the past two weeks you and Timothy spent more time together whenever you had the chance to fuel your leisure and each gathering for the regular meals, nevertheless, you solemnly took in your hands to emigrate permanently into his privately owned residence in the countryside, in order to not arouse your neighbours' hideously fiendish, vermillion prejudices and doubts behind the unsolved murder of your former manager that has being a question on investigation by the whole neighbourhood without an efficiently certain response.

Your former home was already being sold by your bare hands after you emphatically have gathered your luggage and confining each authentically majestic, rare paraphernalia inside your suitcases and lugging them to the luggage carrier of the former devotional clergyman's sable cab that was pulled off the same day after his official resignation from the diocese at last. Even when inexorable encounter with the bleakly fiendish homesickness that was possible to respawn as relentlessly bloodthirsty wight of the past and your former property, the categorical decision commenced to contagiously perpetual carding every ounce of your nostalgia to rail eagerly you train of thoughts nonetheless.

Sometimes the decisions for better life and dodging every feasible trouble that might be the trinklet of your oscillation even without opting to be donned up were less touchable of the celestially gilt sanctum of your untouchable heavenly nirvana guarding your very soul and flimsy heart. You couldn't hazard to reside for any longer in the flat where your neighbours didn't trade the best platonic bond with you, nor the worst even during the briefest interactions. Sometimes the most hazardous, versatile decisions could cost you even a split second to save your life or somebody's pearly precious well-being. You couldn't put a finger on how immensely grateful you appeared to be in the end after your ever-lasting emigration in the British aristocrat's two-story house. 

Even when in the first two weeks he spent as unemployed yet, nevertheless, every time when you were back from your day shift at the cafeteria, consequently majestically breathtaking, exquisitely scrumptious dinner meal accompanied by additional attributes such as salads and flimsy goblets elegantly engulfing its freshly poured delicious red liquor shimmered past your eyesight and waltzing its remarkably unique glint that rhymithically was escorted in the corner of your eye. The hours of great deal of efforts and two masculinely mammoth, starkly veiny hands cortoring at each manipulated twitch of his long fingers to prepare the meals remorseless.

Clamminess marvelously thick coated his fingertips, pads of his fingers and palms. The pleasantly pungnent fragrance of freshly prepared dinner wafted infectively your very tender nostrils promptly. Stronger than a recited in a mumble divinely inward prayer. Weaker than the most numbing, megawattly unnerving bicker you exchanged with the last person that got on your very nerves.

Sweltering heat fiercely roared to ripple his tender flesh his overall arms even when he was still educating himself in the culinary and to opt to delightfully pamper you after having even the toughest day of the week. The great deal of efforts to pamper you altruistically sweetened your tongue and bestowing its authentically one of a kind sweet flavor permeating inside your oral caverns, enforcing ferociously to bit the inside of your cheek.

You couldn't express your gratitude in more specifically accurate, imaginative method rather than in the series of mewled bluntly silver-tongued, coy sweet nothings and compliments tingling its truly elating angelic anthems into the British aristocrat's amenable ears and subsequently rippling its very waves of inevitably stormy tempest's coherent storm of jovial encouragement hypodermically surging through his veins and arteries. Just like the serene prong of syringe to hypodermically headstrong wiredrawing its naturally translucent, perfectly down-to-earth blood to fuel the tube’s patchy emptiness with the gory liquid.

During your day shift in the cafeteria in the wee hours of the afternoon as the winter leaked its tremendously explicit true colours with the wee inkling of obscuring entirely the autumn season and the profoundly vibrant warmness no longer looming with the moderately gauged filter of the gilt sun altruistically shrouding the façades and the other abutting, the aggressive howl of the ferociously ceaseless glacial gale exhaling sharply outside and meekly pursuing its rhythmical waltz outdoors and fanning stubbornly the living beings that passed each site down the snowy streets of Boston. The winter’s indubitably wonderful illustration savagely inexorable stitched each discrete detail to throng every patchy shallow niche that could deface slowly but surely the genuine hardwork of the Mother Nature. The rich snowfall pelted down sluggishly the Boston streets bluntly restless, bearing a semblance of the vehement joggle of a snowball glass after the pair of dexteriously arduous fingers manifested to work on the manipulations onward and downward until the effect’s ultimate delightful performance.

The quantity of clients populated almost every inch of the cafeteria interior outnumbered viciously the outdoor that was a small part regularly maintained the utmostly megawatt difference, formatting its huge number. You haven’t encountered any utmost issues even if they plummeted down its significance with your manager or certain co-workers of yours.

“_The Sun comes up and brings the dawn__! __As usual__ w__hen I awake I'll find you gone__ a__s usual__!_” As Usual by Brenda Lee thrumming eloquently its angelic anthems into the clients’ ears reckoning your and your colleagues’ amenable, potently infective suffusing its serene ambience that was fueled with beehive of aggressively howling bees that could be interpreted in the nobodies’ bluntly refreshing chats they swapped with the companies that separated from their time to escort them inside the site. The hours ticked unnervingly timeless as if the centuries could be rather the genuine notion of the advancing work epoch for every prey whose daily routine was partly fueled by its shift.

At the moment, you docilely managed to dawdle your petite-frame immobile as you seated on the chair before the bar that was solely accessible to your manager and your colleagues reckoning your one of a kind persona. During your day shift at work, the former pious man of the cloth rather preferred to stay at home according to his solemn meager daily schedule even if he’d a couple of chores to do over your current property you shared a roof together.

The haphazardness of the phone’s ruthlessly shrill hum catching you off guard momentarily, consequently you channelized one of your petite, femininely creamy hands’ long fingers to yank balefully the jet-black earpiece in no time as it clung to your delicate ear shell to adjust its poise ultimately. A straight line nonchalantly buffed smoothly your naturally roseate, angelically cherub lips, reconsidering the recent phone call you might be maintained with another self-conscious customer that has scarcely any idea about the site’s hot offers and location as well or otherwise another leisure colloquy between you and one of your pals.

“This is Y/N L/N!” In the interval, your wet, strawberry-coloured tongue registered deftly to conjugate the ocean of vowels and syllables greatly commingling to formate your neutral address, being oblivious to the phone number that you recently earned its phone call.

Your E/C rotund jewels manipulated to roll up once the sole response in approval you obtained was a hitched breath echoing through the earpiece, whereas you lulled out of your tongue graciously sleek to lick your upper and lower pink lip as it slipped to contact the tenderly fleshy cortex. Unlike the unevenly subconscious insecure drum of your fingertips against the entity binded stably by the pads of your creamy fingers, consequently your E/C jewels ushered to dart to the enormous mass of nobodies to catch a glimpse of them for a split second, in order to not obtain the rich swarm of childlikely inquisitive, big-headed twain of eyes heartily swilling every ounce of your anatomy from head to toes.

“H-Hello?” An unevenly icy, bashful stutter sloppily foamed your nude pink mouth while the hair-risingly obdurate attempts to sort your mind neatly during the awkwardness building on the maintenance of the phone conversation sent monumental avalanche twining in the pit of your stomach balefully and frosting the insides hypodermically beneath your lower abdomen’s stable armor. “Hello? Who’s calling at the moment?” Your front pearly white teeth maneuvered to worry on your bottom brim lip promptly, in order to stifle the despondently incoherent, childishly blunt whimpers that might escape your oral caverns bolt from the blue anytime, guesstimating precisely the explicit scenario.

The spontaneous acceleration of your heart pulses hammered into your eardrums, bearing a semblance of high-pitched music piercing the very walls of the nightclubs in a serenely delighting summer night. Little did you know whose hitched breathing could emulate its vocalist’s ballad. It was so foreign. It was so untouchable. The obscene of the untouchable and the cryptic.

The flabbergastingly embarrassment extraordinarily darkened its hue of your full profile and a heavy, jaded sigh emerging from your brittle lungs in a jiffy while stilling the sort mission of your vortex of thoughts at the moment. What it could happen if it’s a prank call just to baffle you and its preys that have accepted amenably the phone call and accelerated the heart pulses megawatt? What it could happen if it’s an ill-famed, bloodthirstily spine-chilling psychopath whose specialism were the cunning manipulations and the razor-edged vortex of thoughts’ versatile function was aiming to intentionally pop up from nowhere and coveting to fulfill the gory Gehenna’s disaster even through the phone?

The mouth-wateringly graceful fragrance of freshly brewed beverages and prepared meals fantastically whisked doubtlessly with the pungent reek of human flesh and sweat wafted across your tiny, flexible nostrils. The ordinary scent of the cafeteria or other public site that had hundreds of customers daily even if at times they were less than a hundred as well.

“I don’t have a time for games!” Channelizing the back of your elvish, delicately velvet solely free hand to bedaub its bountiful crystally luminous layer of perspiration thickly fabulous, sardonic laminating your temple, your rosy-coloured, brim mouth struggled to tangle a bewildered, disgruntledly cold-blooded exhale puffing up its soft O gaping your oral slit. You couldn’t any longer bear those childlikely hazardous, strong-willedly grave games that could be worth even a living being’s pearly precious life.

“Oh hi, Y/N!” The suddenness of the broken ice of one of your true blue buddies Frederic’s pleasant Michigan lilt puncturing the sardonically kindhearted undertones deflating his cheerful nature in his utterance, whereas you managed to incline perkily an eyebrow.

“Oh Frederic! Hey!” Squinting up your E/C roundish bijous at the swarm of nobodies for awhile to recollect your train of thoughts during your colloquy with the Michiganian, a coyly huge grin curved upon your mouth promisingly, invitingly and muffling with the palm of your hand fashionably the brittle, notoriously squeaky guttural chuckle as your throat flexed its vibration bubbling up from its armor. “You almost scared the pants off me, not gonna lie!”

“_But I can't find a way to let__ t__his crazy heart of mine forget__, __I pretend you're still beside me__ a__s usual__!_”

“I’m sincerely sorry, Y/N! I didn’t think you have that thick skin as Dana.”

“It truly depends of the situation as well!” Stifling another bluntly emitted girlishly humble giggle, throughout hypodermically contagious blush jovially mischievous tickled your well-carved, chubby cheeks promptly. “How are you doing anyway, fellow fella?”

“The things are great. I’m planning to celebrate Christmas with Barb and some pals, while Dana is aiming to celebrate it with her whole family.”

“Oh! How fantastically it is scenting of, I have to admit, pal!”

“Indeed! What are your plans for Christmas, Y/N?” Suddenly you registered a cold-bloodedly pensive, cryptically adorable purse wedging your rosy-coloured mouth abruptly at the enquiry and the sheerly despondent homesickness of the relentlessly stormy tempest inundating your hurricane of thoughts at the reminiscence of your earlier years and the Christian holiday’s annual celebration that tore off your heart on thousand of glassily flimsy pieces in a handful of bloody slashes.

Notwithstanding your entire family’s spine-chilling demise banishing their very mortal presences out of the crudely cold, nevertheless, grand world, yet the preciously golden, celestially heartwarming blended with heartaching memories of your past such as adolescence and childhood eagerly chased you down to bestow you with its intoxicatingly salty doze of hysterically restless, endless drizzle of tears staining your façade and mirroring your disastrous despondency. During your high school years you could ideally recall the very scenarios of spending each Christmas at your grandparents’ humble household and spending hours drinking and eating and chatting with one another, besides treasuring dearly every elapsing second in the modestly doting company of your Todd and Claudia.

The luxuriously vast cloud overcastting prominently unique its contagious dimness to strangle vindictively its low-spiritedness even though the poor attempts due to the angelical euphoria richly sousing your, Todd and Claudia’s laughters and chitchats. A brilliantly crystal, luminously stealthy tear gushed down your lower eyelids subconsciously, unknowledgeably as your pure oblivion to the sublt indication of your heartaching nostalgia you yearned to discuss immediately the least.

“Oh! I’m just planning to celebrate Christmas with Timothy since I have no one else special.” Dozens of childlikely self-conscious, thoughtfully dreamy stammers emerging from your mouth, whilst picturing vividly explicit the scenarios of celebrating Christmas with nobody else than the British compatriot graced you with an innoconously demure, modestly mellow smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth at the very thought of him tarnishing each functioning cell and muscle that trembled every progressing second. “Since I have lost my family and I have solely friends that I could number only on one of my hands’ fingers,”

“_Each evening I take a walk__ a__s usual__! __I make believe that we still talk__  
__a__s usual__!_” As Usual lingered its infectively peacefully mirthful tunes dancing and immersing the very ears of its victims of the lull.

“At least, it’s something to suppress that severe pain and heavy loneliness during the holidays,” A coarse snort surged through the older gentleman’s nose as soon as you maneuvered your only free hand’s pristinely satin fingers to coil mischievously gentle a fistful of your H/L lion mane of unblemishedly youthful, freshly silken locks brushing your digit. “You know! You remember clearly well you shared a Christmas with me and Barb the last year?”

“Oh yeah!” Bobbing meekly your head in solemn agreement, thus a featherly-soft quirk of your knitted eyebrows towards the bridge of your nose formulated your actual facial expression’s real prospect. “Yeah! Howsoever, it was much different compared to the last Christmases I have ever had with my family before their eventual death.”

\--- ******* \---

\--- _Later that Day_ \---

“Wah!” Mewling a ruthlessly high-pitched, desperate shriek at the top of his lungs subconsciously while writhing recklessly hysterical his frail skeleton beneath its bundled comfortably warm duvet and his muscular, toned back cortoring on ripples the bed sheets, consequently Timothy struggled to find a comfy slumber pose and the thickly sticky sable blotches of his former shift in his possessed version tinted shamelessly his pinched widely shut his eyelids and hurricane of thoughts, chaotically operating its frostbite.

Just a handful of hours after nonchalantly crawling in your own individual beds to drown in the mistily abysmal, sinisterly inebriating ocean of your very reveries and senselessness in scarce twitch of your fleshy muscles, besides having a mouth-wateringly amicable dinner where you spent its preciously celestial minutes of chatting with one another about your daily routine and certain interesting topics instead of masticating and taking freshly hot and steamy showers individually, a severe snowfall pelted down the small city of Massachusetts and the truculently villainous winds howled nervously outside.

Two weeks after the second and lethally final exorcism of Timothy and bashing the vile essence that once resided unremittingly his larger frame, it wasn’t an efficiently phenomenon to drastically cleanse its shadows and demons of the bleakly somber past and his possession surreptitiously sneaking inside his reverie realm as uninvited guests. They were always in charge of their crucial mission to grace with its corrupting, frequent nightmares its former victim of spiritual possession.

Meantime, the former aspiring Monsignor straightened his posture as he seated on the edge of his king-sized bed and hopping up in comfortable pair of slippers to shoe his bare, amusingly warm feet, consequently thoughtlessly bolting out of his bedroom in no time and timidly tiptoeing up to the guests room in the profoundly long hallway of the second floor shortly after stinging broadly opened his coffee brown optics to scan his surroundings that were profusely mantled beneath its fat ebony, rigid pallium obscuring its distinction embracing his vista. The bashfully villainous, guiltless long strides were drumming against the wooden planked flooring when the former ambitious Monsignor arrived before his imminent, final destination nonetheless. The guests’ room.

A couple of gentlemanly raps caught you off guard slowly but surely from your beauty coma you were sweetly solemn surrending your realm shortly after Timothy managed to curl his virginally colossal, orthodoxy velvet hands into balled fists to contact the wooden material sifting the both sites eventually. The feather-soft midnight echo of further background noise except the wintery ode playing on loop unevenly braced the two-story mansion tightly tingled alarming tones into your vulnerable ears.

“Damn!” The haphazardness of coming to your senses and conjugating to purr a soft, ironically rueful grunt curling your upper lip didn’t cease its contagious hoarseness stemming from your calm slumber, whereas manifesting to shake your head instantly shortly before shifting your groggy, glossy E/C cabochons to be transfixed on the wooden door. “Timothy, is everything okay?”

“I really can’t sleep. It’s all chasing me down again like an overcasted sky of clouds obscuring the sun to shine.” In the meantime, the older gentleman’s hand mousy perched on the doorknob and subsequently turning it as the door nefariously ominous whined its creaky, brief symphony and stepping inside the guests’ room without thinking twice, whereas shutting the door behind him promptly. “I didn’t mean truly to trouble you, Y/N!”

“It’s okay, honey!” The friendly nickname molted candidly enchanting the former devotional member of the church followed by a sharp exhale when his strong-willedly rebellious attempts to sort his mind even when flashes of demons and shadows stalking every ounce of track of his very being, in order to track down his current destination as well. A kindheartedly angelic, peacefully childlike smile bloomed to twist across his ghostly pale, yet youthful complexion. A maintenance of adequately sufficient long, nevertheless, subtle proximity impaled abruptly once Timothy crept inside the conveniently warm, welcoming duvet and diminishing your actual distance at last as you returned the smile with a wide, beamingly sunny grin cradling your mouth. “You shouldn’t be scared of anything at any cost.”

“It’s still for almost two weeks haunting me,”

“Don’t worry, Tim!” Meanwhile, you pressed an affectionately reassuring peck on top of his temple and throwing your satin, protective arms to brace his upper muscly, toned upper back firmly, whereas on reflex his muscular, strong arms snaked around your middle in a jiffy and his piercing, yet blamelessly doe chocolate brown huge, rotund depths speared yours kindly. The intimacy genuinely grave intensified its tension and ambience eventually. “Everything will be good. We’ll arrange an appointment with Dana’s mother who’s a well-known, excellent professional psychologist who will grant you what the nightmares exactly fearing of are.”

“Rare bird,” A despondently uncontrollable, demonic sob escaped his Adam’s apple and writhing iron-willedly brass in your grip, whereas you manipulated one of your elvish, feather-soft hands smoothly to knead his back consolingly on reflex, gifting him with its necessary myriad of unconditional love, vast warmness and vibrant understanding even when the nightmares’ potently intoxicating flame spectacularly kindled his thoughts and inner voices in his head to haunt him vigorously.

“No, no, no, Tim! I genuinely promise you will be on your feet in a New York minute by the following week before Christmas!” The heavy rain of salty, brilliantly luminous tears drenched the crook of your neck once the older man managed to bury his face innocently, sensing truly the safety and the consolation you offered him strongly. “You are not alone! I am always with you, regardless the circumstances. Regardless what the others think of us. Regardless what even the nigh neighbours might think of us. We have our own lives and we are supposed to fight for ourselves and for our happiness, not for our misery that is worth somebody’s hedonistically growling satisfaction watching us being tormented.”

“I have never loved truly somebody as much as you, my rare bird!” Then one of his mammoth, amusingly warm hand’s long, slim fingers channelized to rake your halo ringlet of silky strands uneasily, admiring its youthful crispiness. “You were the only one who cared about my soul’s salvation thanks to that exorcism and rescuing my very being from the demon’s tormenting punishment he has prepared for me even rumbled up highlands and valleys to track me down like an amenable prey.”

“I am rather thankful to that divine power that reigns or somehow has utter control over the karma has gathered us as a specific destiny. Thank you for everything, Timothy!”

“I am rather more grateful for anything you have done for me, my bird!”

“I love you more than you can imagine!” A silver-tongued, mousy coo dripped sloppily from your mouth as you planted a tenderly loving, heartmelting kiss to Timothy’s well-sculptured, tear-stained cheek and then daubing with your brim, soft lips each tiny rivulet of bitter tears. The smooth tremble of fingertips tracing invitingly the very curve of your cheekbone and cupping in the palm of his dumbfoundingly warm, soothing hand your cheek as the pads of his fingers, the warm, scrumptious food-stained breathing lightly fanned each other’s delicate facial skins.

Another serene night like the others. The early winter’s ode eloquency accentuating the rich tones of warmongeringly wild howls of frosty gales plaguing the small city of Massachusetts even in the darkest and the calmest hours of the day. Midnight or any hour of the night’s twilight. It smelled of opulent tranquility that lulled its children of the grogginess and insomnia to eavesdropping up the commonly encountered extraordinary nocturnal ballds.

**Author's Note: Since that is the 30th chapter and there are a few days until Christmas chapter with the female reader and Timothy, what are your genuine thoughts on this story up to now? Are you more interested than before? What are your very thoughts on the plot twists that played out perkily in the story from the 21st up to now for example? **

**I'd like to hear your thoughts on those important questions as a reader!**


	31. Gehenna

**✞ ** _Do you believe? Do you fade like a dream?_

_Let me hear you breathe _ **✞**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _The Next Morning _\---  
\--- _21st of December, 1964 _\---

As soon as the midnight's vibrantly profound twilight bled into the wee hours of the morning, the honey-mouthedly mirthful birdsongs stitched the numbness's patchy hollow outdoors as the gracefully melliflous tunes pierced the walls of the privately owned property. Vastly luster snow fantastically settled on bare branches, window boards and anywhere else where it could be amenable for the newfangled guest to find its new cozy home after the perkily vehement dance of the swarm of snowflakes in the thin air. A weak glacial wind gingerly puffed the light-heavy branches and anything that equated to vulnerable in its weight due to the vicious winter climate.

The promisingly inviting, satin snuggle you and Timothy traded its ethereally timeless, down-to-earth hours during your iron-willedly brass rest through the nocturnal episode engulfed you in a miniaturely cozy bubble of your own world and realm stitching protectively your very muscles and very hurricane of thoughts. Contagiously fleshy warmness hypodermically rippled your tender fleshes as your pressed bodies managed to choir the tandem. Warm breaths faintly, welcomingly fanned each other's earlobes and napes of your necks.

The relentlessly vindictive ebony darkness with its thickly rigid, shapeless mantles swathing the site as its own children of the darkness. The dear children of the darkness kipping beyond nonchalantly, scarcely daring to care if even somebody is going to venture up inside the site and banish their very lives out of their motionless figures with its own bare, fiendishly bloodthirsty hands that were coated in its thickly marvelous baptize of the scrumptiously cloying blood.

Once you were abysmally dipped aimlessly in the stormy tempest of its monumental waves innundating your wild reverie where your current location was solemnly established until you came to your senses, consequently the former aspiring Monsignor woke up beneath the brassly dim silver stream of the early morning embracing him in the company of the honey-mouthed birdsongs tickling his delicate, vulnerable ears. Manifesting to straightening his posture and seating on the edge of the bed after flipping vehemently on the other side, releasing himself from the promisingly warm, doting embrace of your silken arms in series of non-verbal protests as the grip reined off unceasingly, he fashioned his mammoth, pristinely milky hands into balled fists to knead his groggy eyes and then muffling gracefully with the palm of his hand a yawn that curled upon his lip.

Sooner or later, everybody were presumed to no longer roll their bodies up underneath the comfy blankets of the apovalytically succumbing comfort through the inexorably frigid hours ticking unnervingly and light-headedly accomodating to any daily episode. Of course, everybody had their own daily celestially eminent goals for today and they ventured up inside the chromatic trance leaking their sheer brilliance to shimmer extraordinarily luminous of their determination!

Once the former holy priest lifted up his rear from the comfy furniture, the sheer oblivion of the mystified flock of traces of something that didn't even bear a semblance of something perfectly natural to embroider afflictively hypodermic his vulnerably tender flesh of his torso underneath the promisingly feather-soft fabric of his collection of pyjama. Seaming almost every ounce and every span that bracketed each familiar sanctum, in order to expand its outstanding territory. Demonically afflictive to be savored its bittersweet flavor of the eventual sorely fresh agony ornamenting the formerly possessed holy man. Yet, the abysmally eternall, brassly smoggy lakes of sore vermillion mischievously drummed and synced the amplified heart pulses thudding into Timothy's toned, muscly chest.

When the comfortably feather-soft fabric of the duvet no longer contacted even an inch clumsily of Timothy's frail skeleton that was donned up in his pair of cozy, thus the common chilly climate that naturally authentic beset the thin air pebbled his thin plum nipples and his bare feet gliding to the impending destination that could be interpreted the grandiose round mirror standing before himself. Undoing a couple of stubbornly bland buttons as his fingertips bedaubbed smoothly until the pyjama shirt perpetually peeled off its freshly welcoming fabric from his chest and leaking the beginnings of his insatiable collarbones and a thick wire of kinky, dark hair sowed, meantime, his chocolate brown big, rotund gemstones lingered to chase down each discrete detail exposed to the manipulated glass reflecting the absolute reality surrealistically.

An eerie flat line flourished insecurely upon his naturally pale-pinkish, deliciously plumpish lips that meagerly twitched during his dexterous manipulation of his virginally strong fingers to unbutton the flock of buttons until the attire swung candidly playful, faintly as his smoky quartz gemstones landed on the foreign, the unseen scrapes adorning his velvet, alabaster abdomen in the right side. What it struck the British aristocrat about the scrapes of demon's bloodthirstily spine-chilling, unthinkable claws to lug down and dump relentlessly its unmerciful plague to agonize a former prey of the villaniously hair-rising, unbelievable vile essence's dominance.

The haphazardness of the sluggishly obdurate buff of his pale-pinkish mouth to contort its greasy grimace accompanying an indistinctive pout tugging at the corner of his mouth, elaborating a low hum of the ironical nonchalance that prominently spolighted his handsome facial attributes. Maneuvering to incline a dark, masculinely natural thick eyebrow at the unspeakable vista and surveying a in scrutiny the eerieness of the devil's wickedly hazardous claws opting to bind him in an ever-lastingly tight, unremitting grapple of the demise and unholy nemesis.

Little did he know what those claws' scrapes of an antagonistically ferocious supernatural creature that marked its own territory by compensating its non-verbal damage to ornament awfully blood-curdling at the very thought of the claws' fiercely honed nails dragging at the tender, vulnerable skin in a fleet motion and baptizing its sharp entities into a luxurious cataract of pungently infernal gore. The starkly inebriating, breathtaking stream of gore glimmered dimly.

"Oh God!" Mewling a harsh shriek after gritting his pearly-white teeth acriminously at the surreal grotesque prospect in a great alloy of tremendous disgust, nauseous fear and enthralling disbelief, meanwhile, you couldn't help but waking up hours after hours of promisingly restless rest where you didn't even manage to twitch a muscle. "T-That's impossible!" Yet the childlike mortification of the a couple of inches trio grazes incising its downy fleshy muscles into its harrowing vermillion ingresses to dribble its own rivulets, whilst registering to bit the inside of his cheek disquietingly humdrum when the stir scarcely caught him off guard and shifting his attention without turning his body fully to spear with his doe coffee brown embers, kindled its very blazes, ablaze with sheer innocence and guiltless vulnerability brightly illuminating his very nature.

In a half a minute of fashioning ordinarily into balled fists your elvish, pristinely delicate hands to rub the inescapably sticky, chubby layer of grogginess ornamenting your E/C embers and muffling with the palm of your hand a mere yawn, thereafter you shifted entirely your attention to the British compatriot who came to his senses slightly earlier than you. It looked like somebody was missing the early morning party of the enigmatically bloody woes. Ironically or not, later today you planned to phone Dana's mother to arrange an appointment for the forthcoming few days before Christmas holidays to grant the needful aid for the former pious clergyman.

The venomously salty flavor of the dreadful concept of dumping the former pious clergyman whenever he needed to seek a professional help about the nightmares that chased him for straight two weeks ruthlessly reckless and struggling to accommodate to his post-spiritual possession life physically and mentally almost died on your tongue, due to the fact, you weren't midst the nobodies that were far cry from altruistic to ultimately endure each segment of the afflictively strenunous process. Every single life that hedged you freely was pearly precious. Regardless each person's past and mistakes or rather the times when their darker side has gradually exuded due to the cumulation of the pernicious wrath, held grudges and the malevolently venomous fear blending its own philtre to strengthen the worst foes as emotions and sentiments for every living being, the dearly unique life that has being bestowed for everybody couldn't be deprived.

You could formulate slyly, gravely pensive the genuine notion of the older man's agony and affliction he was persuading eagerly, demandingly its path. It would be a crime to not grace Timothy with the desideratum help. It would be a crime to ebb his life off even when he was in the middle of his strong-willedly unspeakable battle with the diabolically cutthroat shadows, vengeful demons and barbarically impudent monsters creeping to blight every properly functioning muscle, cell and thought.

A straight line remarkably embellished your satin, dry façade, boring your E/C bijous into the former aspiring Monsignor's cocoa brown. The amiably mellow address of the casual greeting couldn't be formatted genuinely good, in fact, you just found yourself beholding the woefully injured former man of the cloth posing before the grandiose round-framed mirror.

"Tim, is everything okay?" At the moment, you manifested your elvish, creamy hands to unwrap ordinarily the comfy duvet and hopping out of the king-sized bed promptly on your mission to discover the unsolved mystery. The posed question of yours even if the manipulated reflection of the indubitably otherworldly marks of the devil have hypodermically nicked maliciously a couple of inches youthful flesh, whereas electrifying goosebumps spiked your smooth epidermis of your overall arms and legs as your starkly exposed feet ghostwrote the cozily carpeted floor of the guests' room, following its rhythmically resilient, lethally quiet drums conjugating your elegantly casual gait. "Oh my goodness!" Stifling a blatantly blunt sob bubbling up from your feminine Adam's apple, subsequently your gaze forcefully penetrating fixated on the unspeakably hair-rising injury as the British aristocrat's virginally long, ghostly pale fingers worked on peeling off the pajama attire to be discarded on top of the exquisitely polished footboard and scarcely averting his doe cocoa brown depths from yours, blazing its fiery insecurity and childishly innocunousness. "What happened to your torso?"

"I have just discovered a few minutes ago, my rare bird!" His solely free hand's slim fingers managed to slither to his dark scalp to graze gingerly uneasily its palpable area, whereas the dry fat of his strawberry-coloured tongue clumsily crafted a guttural, frustrated groan formatting his apocalyptically inexorable vexation of the injury, whereas you maintained slowly but surely, warily to approach and sealing the adequately intimate proximity you traded with one another, examining in a scrutiny the fiercely cinnabar variants distinguishing from one another in its length and width as well. The valley of green nausea inundated barbarously your lower abdomen and its abysmally dense lake flowing through your veins and blightly unceasingly your muscles accompanying its facial expression to twiddle emphatically with stark revulsion etching ominously your facial attributes eventually. "I haven't seen my torso in such condition since the night before."

"That's so dreadful." Without hesitation, you slipped your orthodoxy plumes to parcel circa his broadly muscly shoulder and then squinting up your gaze to bore into his, your nude pink lips struggling to buff a ruefully radiant, weak smile flexing your delicate jaw. Pinkness gamely tickled your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks promptly when your brittle fingertips and digits lightly, bashfully traced its masculinely anatomical shoulder's outstandingly intriguing curve shortly before its affable claw you offered. Your heart pulsations synced subconsciously wicked and channelizing to lull your dry, strawberry-coloured tongue to lick thoughtfully your upper and lower lip in no time. "Oh fucking God! You need to see the doctor sooner than later, because it would be unthinkable to behold you lugging yourself as a worm in sore agony, feeling as if you have resided Gehenna's very walls."

"But what about your day shift, Y/N?" The inquiry almost died on the older gentleman's tongue tip subtly, molting into the affectionately welcoming touch of your tissues binding his shoulder blade sluggishly, admiring the crispy anatomy.

"My manager can go screw up himself, because I can work anything else than a pathetic waitress that is trying to save the life of a dear friend that might be not being able to crawl on this crudely cold, big world any longer if I abandoned you all alone with those demon claws torturing you."

"Don't be silly, my bird! I can help myself to go see a doctor shortly after breakfast." The hoarseness of the sardonically inward snigger of the British aristocrat didn't vanish as his Adam's apple seethed, callouses abruptly seriously heinous inscribing your frail knuckles' highlands on your hands' fists.

"Going on your own to the doctor office is quite risky," Stifling the urge to exceedingly choke on the bitter lump seethed your feminine Adam's apple, whereas you ushered to raise an arch of your elegant eyebrow escorting its sharp incredulity buckling across your full profile. "Especially in such utmostly hazardous condition with such unbelievably unnatural marks of demon claws embroidering almost every inch of the right side of your lower abdomen, Tim!" In the meantime, you managed to emit a cold-bloodedly dry, wry chuckle simmering your tongue tip after its sloppy slither in no time, recurringly shaking your head in solemn disapparoval to allow him to venture up in the hospital on his own in less than an hour. "We will be good once we go to the hospital together. It's still a quarter past six, honey! We have a lot of time until my freaking work. Even if I am late for work within a second, the manager can do whatever he wants to me to banish me out of my position."

"You're too good to me!" All of a sudden, you rose on your toes and ushered your naturally rosy-coloured, angelically cherub lips to press an affectionately altruistic, merry peck to the older gentleman's well-carved cheek as he tugged you in a tight, kindheartedly protective hug shortly after he snaked his strongly bare, muscular arms to brace your middle.

"Honey, you deserve only the best! Don't ever dare to think of dreadfully dramatic scenarios where I will let you down!"

\--- ******* \---

\--- _A Several Hours Later or So_ \---

When the wee hours of the morning ominously stagnantly, unceasingly bled into the mid-afternoon's twilight looming the horizon with its wintery weak, monumentally roundish gilded sun mounting up and accompanying prominently the vast mass of silver clouds overcastting its flock, throughout the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer managed to venture up inside the former property of Y/N as she ascended the stairs bluntly restless. Generous layer of blush unknowledgeable powdered her porcelain, elderly attractive façade after conjugating dozens of footsteps whispering against the concrete floor and stairs.

A cryptically beaming, optimistically vibrant weak smile embellished uniquely her silken, glossy mouth and balling up persistently her winter pantaletot on her mission to reach the floor of your former property at last. Hitched breathing trashed its vibrations into her brittle lungs, all alone perpetually accomplishing her mission while Frank was at work as a security guard of a bank.

Profusion of glossy perspiration truly clung to her forehead and marbled expanse that was mantled in a conveniently warm scarf until she stood before the wooden door. Manipulating her gloved spidery fingers to reach for the bell to ding, elaborating its monotonously high-pitched drone to keep the wits the current owner about the former nun's very presence, her heart candidly vehement trashed into her ribcage. The heart pulses amplified rabidly rapid. The perkily elaboration of footsteps emanating from the hallway tingled its alarming tones into her amenable, petite ears until the front door was unlocked in a single click and swinging unremittingly opened at the vista of the recent owner. 

**Author's Note: Regardless how brief certain chapters appear to be due to the fact, the words' count is less than 3000, nevertheless, I'm still proud of myself for including freshly baked plottwists for this book even if it's in the early 30s chapters, where the plot-twists will be pretty amusing and arousing abundance of questions for the readers rather than in the previous ones. **

**What are your thoughts on that shorter chapter even if it's slightly bland, due to the fact, I had ginormous inspiration to grant my readers with an update sooner than later? What are your thoughts on Timothy's wound of the demon claws during his post-spiritual possession phase? Furthermore, what do you think about the crude cliffhanger where Jude opts to find Timothy and the female reader, howsoever, she ends up finding a different owner of the flat which was a former property of the female reader? **

**I hope you liked and enjoyed the chapter! :)) **


	32. Play With Fire

**🔥 ** _But don't play with me,_

_'cause you're playing with fire_ ** 🔥**

\--- ***** **\---

The suddenness of the much older woman whose age approximately emulated to the early seventies rippled forcibly potent its painfully sore goosebumps of Jude's overall delicate epidermis of her arms and legs. Stinging searingly fiery her hazelish-brown cabochons at the embarrassing prospect of the stranger lady exquisitely matched with the profusely luxurious powder of cherry hue decorating uniquely her porcelain, elderly appealing complexion.

The older lady's unhealthily unimpressive skin tone emulated to the achromatic shades of the paleness. Furthermore, she stood solely 5'1 before the taller figure of the former pious sister of the church whose very presence could be interpeted as a fully uninvited guest. Her big, roundish silver brown bijous elegantly matched with her balding, femininely thin eyebrows and her subtly thin, brim mouth. Notwithstanding her elderly physique, a halo ringlet of greasy hoary tresses cascaded her mid-back fashionably as a fistful of her fringe curtained incredible her porcelain façade. Her body structure etched its prominent muscles and curves averagely even though her critically unhealthy skin tone.

In spite of the foreign older lady's presence granting its stormy tempest of discomfort innundating the Bostonian's pit of her stomach with unnatural glacial coherent waves trashing unceasingly, a wryly welcoming, jovial smirk wickedly tugged at the corner of her chapped mouth. Wry mirth authentically majestic inscribed the curves hypodermically of her heavy wrinkles. Her attires were a humble knee length old-fashioned rosewood dress with boat neckline and long sleeves bonded with embroidered showy cashmere belt binding her waist, paired with thick, rigidly woolen jet-black pantyhose guarding her bony legs and modest violet slippers shoeing her brittle, petite feet that weren't ideally matching with her outfit adequately.

Last but not least, incredulous stringency twisted past her round, slender profile as well. Her name was eventually Jane Daisy Martinez.

"G-Good day, ma'am!" At the moment, a sheepishly demure stutter almost died on the younger woman's fat of her tongue, boring her honey brown cabochons into Jane Daisy's grayish, sluggishly buffing a coyly formidable, gracious smile upon her roseate, insatiably cherub lips. Her jet-black gloved fingers childishly unnerving fidgeted the winter ebony pantaletot swathing her torso as its hem perkily vibrant flared across her hips. "Are ya actually having some sort of associations with the ex-Monsignor Timothy Howard?" The sheer awkwardness even more intensified forcefully fierce its tension of the platonic pairing that maintained an appropriate distance.

"No, ma'am!" Maneuvering a shake of her head in solemn disagreement, consequently the huskily high-pitched, rusty undertones of the pensioner's polite address reined the blonde to quirk quizzically a dark, thin eyebrow at the response. "There isn't such a person living in this apartment."

"Oh!" A heavy, rusty sigh bubbled up from the former devotional member of the clergy's brittle chest, whereas Jane Daisy knitted her balding eyebrows to the bridge of her delicate nose as her dimples ruefully cheerful creased her façade. "I didn't mean to disturb, but I am so oblivious to that place." Panting severely while one of her elvish gloved hands amenably formidable pawed the very wall of the corridor, channelizing to timidly poise her body posture and attempting to find its comfort, factly, the angles truly computed as well. "I thought he was living with a familiar girl whose name is Y/N L/N!" Under the woefully ironically inviting gaze of the Mexican compatriot, yet Judy felt so compact, so vulnerable and so weak after her roseate, scrumptiously plump lips curled at the reticently enigmatic stutter.

"I am dearly sorry, ma'am, but I am afraid to admit that I don't know either of them at all." The purely biddable unfamiliarity of Jude with the Mexican compatriot eerily paradoxal spellbinded its eerily shamefaced paradox of the shyness ruffle of the younger woman's facial expression, abiding discreetly untouchable and stubbornly emotionless to maintain an appropriate proximity that could be gauged within a handful of inches solely. "I didn't mean to be brash, howsoever, I doubt you found the correct address of the person you are really looking for!"

"Per se," A severely rusty, infernal snort emerged from the former religious holy woman's nose whilst trying to sort her train of thoughts neatly without an ado and dragging her paw out of the wall promptly. "I am sincerely sorry for disturbing ya, ma'am! Have a nice day!"

"It is okay. Don't be sorry!" At the moment, the senior lady ushered to flex her throat shortly after the bitter lump's thickness profusely trashed to coat hypodermically, squinting up at every motion the former nun convulsed efficiently. "Farewell and have a splendid day!"

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _Flashback __\---_  
_\--- Earlier Today _\---

_"Mr.Howard, for how long have you had those injuries?" Shortly after the studiously professional examination of the bloodthirstily brass, infernally cardinal claws jettisoning its tracks on his former prey of spiritual possession, you and Timothy's childlikely innoconuous discomfort leaked ethereally timeless under the male doctor's leery gawk and managing to narrow his pools of profoundly glossy, glassy apple green. A straight line insecurely wore thousand patterns of nonchalance across the senior male doctor's pleasantly tanned profile._

_Just an hour after the breakfast you both shared with the British compatriot and getting ready for the current day especially due to the exceeding visit in the hospital, consequently a big mass of agitatedly anticipating patients whose ages varied from children to seniors. The unnerving tick of the elapsing seconds smacked their diabolically agitated impatience to function frequently through the recurring twitch of the clock arrows, indicating the real time._

_Just almost a half an hour after anticipating for your turn at last, thus you and the former holy priest set food inside the doctor office. The destination to the hospital endured approximately a half an hour or rather equating to the sheerly impatient anticipation in the grandiose façade's dully lifeless, ironically securely coherent walls' sanctum. The pungnent reek of devilishly contagious of nausea severe medicaments, human sweat, human flesh and stiffness suffusing broadly in the site and pronging the flexible, tiny nostrils. The dim sun streamed its surreptitiously vindictive waterfall to submerge the very site's space in the wee hours of the morning._

_In the meanwhile, the British aristocrat's virginally alabaster, orthodoxy creamy fingers meagerly cradled the thin fabric of his lavender shirt as it was fully unbuttoned and greet your twains of depths with its entincingly toned, muscly torso glazing them fiercely savage. The hem of the undone shirt gauchingly fleet, uneven flared past his pelvis._

_"I guess earlier this morning since they haven't found their feet yet on my abdomen the day prior." The haphazardness of the hoarsely graceful British lilt's adjustment of its stance emphatically didn't vanish into the thin air, boring his chocolate brown gems into Doctor Royale's glassy apple green. Unlike Timothy whose larger frame stationarily posed before the pinewood bureau, professionally neat embellished with smartly sorted a pile of varying files from the thinnest to the thickest in their one of a kind dimension escorting a sheerly lily-white blank accompanying its fountain pen, a pair of eyeglasses and a retro charcoal gray phone, you were currently seating on one of the baby blue parsonas, darting your E/C gems at either of them once it was their turn to formulate their positions on the utmost issue._

_The aftermaths of the vile essence's tentative harbor underneath his tender, fleshy muscles guarding and contouring his frail skeleton's anatomy roused the effects of that couldn't be just solely mental and conducting its thickly sable, hideously humid blotches of shadows and demons tinting his vision and vortex of thoughts, besides physically in the form of the invincibly unhallowed devil's meaningfully unique, nevertheless, sorely painful tokens emulating to unnatural scratches as if they didn't belong to a lecherously disastrous wolf or a bear. The anatomy of the starkly abnormal streaks of fingernails dragging its flimsy tissues to format its categorical territory nowhere else than the abdomen. It couldn't be much eerier than an unsolved mystery in a thriller movie just a half the movie's time has advanced in the patchy idleness of scarcely obtaining even modicum of evidence about the crypticism sustaining the storyline's genuine concept to be shared with the audience. Tougher than an unsolved crime investigation of a grisly homicide over a couple of decades rousing the brief life of galore of questions without any real and efficacious answers._

_Yet Doctor Royale has never encountered different patients complaining about unnatural injuries emanating from the wickedly unthinkable monsters or rather demons that have once resided spiritually the very bodies of their former preys. It seemed peculiarly bizarre to maintain an adequately formal communication with somebody that has not only witnessed the staged vile essence's cardinal command of its person's figure to accommodate to the countless unspeakable deeds and infernal language with its abysmally blood-curdling accent, but also contemplating through the fatly rigid unfolded-curtains-clad scenario of the graphical conjurations._

_"That's peculiarly odd, Mr. Howard!" Muffling a dry cough managing to clear the thickness coating his throat rowdily blatant at the twitch of his bottom lip, throughout the older gentleman's meaty, potent fingers registered to yank his pair of copper Garamond eyeglasses poised smartly to cling to the bridge of his nose during the brief pause. "But since you are the first patient and Miss L/N to know it that I have never accepted any patients that complain about injuries from supernatural creatures like demons or witnessing exorcisms at least." The unevenly icy, sluggish pants pumping the British aristocrat's ribcage at every expelled breathy contraction's remnants, sharp incredulity puckered across the older gentleman's facial features and crinkling his heavy wrinkles at the discrete revelation about his rich experience with the thousands of patients who have set foot inside his office and seeked his council or aid as well. Timothy's heart sunk far-reachingly intensifying in the pit of his stomach and effortlessly blending its fantastic salty swamp of trustlessness at the revelation's pale exposure._

_"I can't believe my eyes you have never had cases of patients that used to be possessed or witnessing one exorcism at least in their lives!" All of a sudden, your Maryland fashionable lilt's extraordinarily authentic emphasis bashed your frigidly neutral doldrum abruptly, whereas your gaze landed on the doctor as you maintained an intensifyingly promising, prominent eye contact and bonding the diverse nuances of your bijous._

_"I'm deadly serious, Miss L/N and Mister Howard! Even if I am trying my best to help you, well, I am not a demonologist or a priest at all!"_

_"He used to be a priest and confronting the face of evil not all alone as I was midst the fewest close people of his circle of small friends to the best of my knowledge. I and my friends also were the essential organisators of the initiative to banish the demon out of his body."_

_"I see!" Meantime, Richard Royale's masculinely potent, marbled fingers ushered to snatch the fountain pen to jot down on the oyster-white blank a handful of prominently eminent notes about the recent visitants in his office especially the former ambitious Monsignor as the mumble almost died on his tongue. "Does his family know about the exorcism and that wound?"_

_"Not at all! They aren't even that close and they haven't spoken to each other for years." During your half-hearted declaim and opting to stabilize the luxuriously official maintenance of eye contact with Richard, he shot quick glances spearing you and the former ambitious Monsignor as his utter focus was darted to the sheet of paper and the freshly scribbled a couple of notes, the jet-black ink glimmering past his eyesight shortly after its permanent's etch of the warily illustrated letters forming words that were individually separated and numbered as paragraphs._

_"Oh! I thought Mister Howard or at least you were keeping in touch with his family, howsoever, sometimes the circumstances cannot unite us with the most precious people ever in our lives." Honing up obdurately ominous your ears to be all ears to each pelt word sloppily foaming Richard's chapped, glossy mouth, whereas you and the British compatriot manifested to exchange a mutually piercing, down-to-earth glances, great bewilderment fusing brilliantly its overwhelemedness winkling your indiscernible pitch-black pupils for a split second as you ushered to quirk quizzically mischievous, questionable your eyebrows. "Since I can't aid you all alone, you have to consult with a priest or somebody who has a brilliant knowledge of the demons and exorcisms, besides the priests, themselves."_

_"Is it possible to cure the wounds just like the ordinary method with the scratches from any wild beasts?"_

_"It's left hanging in the air, if you are asking me to give you a real opinion on the demons and those spiritual baloneys some people are confessing to have met in face-to-face."_

\--- ******* \---

\--- _Flashback_ \---

\--- _An Hour Later or So_ \---

_"Miss Y/N L/N?" In the interim, one of your petite, femininely creamy hands' spidery fingers shyly cradled the doorknob of your manager's office just moments after your arrival in the cafeteria with great deal of delay articulating the real time that is slowly but surely progressing and descending to its twilight. In a single swift motion the door was elegantly shut, whereas the middle-aged gentleman ushered you to take a seat against his bureau, boring his coffee brown cabochons into yours and escorting sinisterly stringent each motion of your muscles and facial expressions' anomalies accompanying the quivers. "You may take a seat!"_

_"Mister Kasman!" A sardonically wry, cold-blooded chuckle emerged from your throat healthily inviting, approaching the bureau promptly in series of strides murmuring against the carpeted floor, offering him a woefully guiltless smile sluggishly elaborating at the very thought of the stringently raw colloquy's agitated anticipation, whereas the middle-aged man quirked ironically joyous an eyebrow at the formally professional address."You wanted to see me urgently."_

_"Yes and that is why you are here!" The suddenness of readjusting his seating posture, the manager's flaccidly bulky arms impaled to proper on the armrests, whereas his naturally baby-pinkish, thin lips struggled to craft the mere curves of a sardonically austere smirk, donned up in its candidly vibrant shades of his very nature once one of the coworkers' goose was cooked altered his stance immediately. The heart pulses amplified megawattly utmost even when your fairly poor attempts to sort your mind and assimilate the aftermaths of your late arrival at the workplace could somehow rumble up to peter out your high spirits, whereas purely relentless rabidly rapid hammers into your chest synced the inebriatingly shameless sore throbs in your ears, almost outnumbering your manager's austerely crude, sarcastic ode's chant. "You were very close to losen your position due to your imprecision!"_

_"E-Excuse me?"_

_"You know that you used to be one of the most diligent employees in that site? Your diligence and sheer seriousness truly heartened your colleagues and me to be touched by your hardwork and maturity."_

_"Y-Yes?"_

_"It is a shame I don't see the same person in my office even if it has the same name." At the moment, Connor Kasman manifested one of his colossal, masculinely calloused hands' meaty, strong fingers to reach for his mug of freshly brewed, steamy coffee as his nude pink lips wedged to wrap around the rim when the dark liquid slithered sleekly to hydrate his organs and berry-coloured tongue. You managed to grapple your thighs uneasily at the hem of your conveniently ordinary emerald green woolen dress as it chaotically perky flared slightly above your knees, struggling to elaborate the vehement swig of the thickness swaddling uncomfortably your feminine Adam's apple during the seethe of your delicate throat muscles. "I cannot force you to change even if I would like to behold the drastically changed person to have one ounce of decency."_

_"I didn't mean to overcome my delay with excuses, nevertheless, the real reason behind my late arrival than the usual was that I needed to escort my friend to the hospital due to the gravely severe injury on his abdomen-"_

_"I don't care anymore, Miss Y/N L/N," A mild pause stung the intensifying escalation of the atmosphere when the Bostonian registered to clear his throat after muffling with the palm of his colossal, veiny hand the mewl of the blatantly dry, cold-hearted cough. "Your friend could be anything else even the stray cat on the street you wanted to pet or bring it to the vet clinic for sterilization."_

_"It's not my first time to be late for work, but there are circumstances that postpone my presence to be right on time."_

_"It could be your last time also. Don't think there is always no last time for anything! There were hundreds of children that have passed through similar path of yours and didn't succeed at all!"_

_"What's happened? Are they okay?"_

_  
"You don't have the right to ask me that question! And let's keep true to our word. From today you are no longer even an employee in this business and having the ultimate right to step in my office."_

**Author's Note: Two flashbacks and a sequel to the cliffhanger from the previous chapter! Initially, I was thinking one scenario for the sold apartment by the reader to have a new owner and to embrace with its eerie emptiness Jude once she ventured up inside, nevertheless, I altered my mind quite quicker than the expected. **

**Yet Timothy hasn't recovered from the demon claws' injury on his abdomen as we shall see if according to Doctor Royale if the encounter with a priest and a doctor along with the patient would solve the unsolved mystery. Let's not forget the female reader loses her position as waitress in the cafeteria, due to the fact, she was late more than the usual even though the manager is astoundingly strict.**

**What are your thoughts all prominent moments that loomed in the chapter? Do you think the final scene is an easter egg which will aid the reader and Timothy's relationship to stregthen rabidly rapid in a jiff? **

**I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter! Furthermore, don't forget to leave a feedback if you have candidly enjoyed it! **


	33. Big Cheese

** **☢ ** ** _Big cheese make me  
Message? what is it? _ ** **☢** **

\--- ******* ****\---  
\--- _End of Flashback _\---  
\--- _Later that Day _\---

"Mmmm!" In the meantime, your constricted pink mouth purred silver-tongued plea of relishing pearly the mouth-watering flavor of the saucy noodles manifested to dawdle on your wet, strawberry-coloured tongue, whereas darting your E/C embers to the former ambitious Monsignor who seated against you on the dining table in the sufficiently expansive, cozy kitchen. Manipulating the monotonously obdurate grind of your pearly-white teeth to munch unceasingly the crispy noodles, the stable maintenance of an eye contact glazing your E/C and Timothy's cocoa brown optics abraded ferociously firm, whereas his virginally long fingers grasped the silver fork and entwining a forkful of thin tissues waltzing around the combs.

"I didn't know you would enjoy the saucy noodles," At the moment, shortly after manipulating his jaw's chatter to grind bluntly sinister his pearly-white teeth to munch perpetually the dinner meal swathing his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue's fat to endure its light-heavy weight of food chunks responding in the swig in a quarter a minute, the British compatriot managed a docile whisper escaping his tongue's fat and surveying you in a sharp scrutiny during the dinner process. Spaghetti's sauce greased lips of the British compatriot almost curled in the process of offering you an angelically benevolent, celestial smile sprawling across his nude, plumpish lips. "Rare bird!"

A wryly nonchalant, lukewarm smile bloomed to buff your naturally roseate, cherub lips at the friendly nickname, emitting a girlishly coy, wry chuckle tickling your jaw as you have endured the process of masticating its countless bite of the dinner meal, trying to obscure beneath your maskless complexion the sheer woe donning your in its thin veil your youthful, gorgeous facial attributes, due to the fact, on one hand you couldn't be more smug to confront your ex-manager, whilst on other hand, you sensed the genuine epitome of patchy bleakness painting with its large brush every ounce of your sentiments and your conscience even the vividly scintillating, explicit reverie scenarios hauled from the reverie realm.

The realm of the purely intoxicating unrealistic realm bestowed you myriad of medleys. The medley of the unnatural ecstasy, purely unconditional consolation and the childlike tranquility chasing you down. Or otherwise, the medley of unnaturally morbid over thinking mission even when it was the least worth it, besides tremendous melancholy and ruthless restlessness rumbling up through your very veins and lacquering your muscles' delicate epidermis armoring promisingly its fleshy layer.

A long day, a handful of prominently ambigous events formatted your entire day's dynamic roller coaster. Certain nobodies would interpret your day as a whole adventurous journey from the doctor's office to rescue Timothy up to home sweet home trading a couple of hours as untouchable bonus with him shortly after no longer obtaining your position in the cafeteria. Whereas the other mass of the nobodies wouldn't deem your day as a divinely complacent nirvana for you at all.

The wee hours of the evening's authentically majestic twilight loomed the small city of Massachusetts accompanying the monunentally roundish pale moon mounting up the starless horizon, whereas a flock of grandiosely translucent hoary clouds outnumbered the palish moon. The luxuriously dark waterfall of darkness pestiferiously pierced the shut window. The eerily tranquil crickets' songs coherently perforated the façade's architecture.

As soon as you left your former work place, consequently you didn't bother to return back at home and accomplishing a few things until the current moment. A briefly relaxing catnap. Spending a few hours in rationally logical and abysmal discussions with the former ambitious Monsignor. Taking a freshly refreshing shower.

"You are a fantastic cook, Tim! Never distrust yourself for whatever your hands and abilities are capable of!" The haphazardness of the hoarsely sardonic giggles you traded as they chattered the kitchen's coherent background for a split second didn't vanish into the thin air. "There are people that always doubt themselves for their abilities or they haven't practiced it for so long, nevertheless, they end up doing them fantastically." Once the infernally emboldening mutter almost died on your tongue, subsequently the former holy priest's smile rabidly rapid broadened and embellishingly dearly his parchment, yet young-looking complexion as your spidery S/C fingers toyed starkly childish the small entity grasped by your fingertips.

"You are so vibrant and optimistic, Y/N!" Manifesting to shake your head in solemn disagreement, thereafter you darted your E/C jewels to the kitchen's window, embracing altruistically sympathetic the vista of the medley of dazzling golden artificial light and the nocturnal's rigidly thick mantle of morbid pitch-black darkness streaming through the window's very glasses. "Isn't that true, is it?"

"Not exactly, Tim! I am just objective and a simple realist." Meanwhile, you shot a mischievously jovial wink at him, lingering your E/C roundish cabochons draining every photogenic ounce of his ghostly pale, vibrantly youthful façade. The starkly truthful tone dancing rhythmically to each word whose vowels and syllables were exquisitely constructed foamed your flexed jaw savagely emphatic. The barbarically crude honesty cocooned cozily each word of yours that sloppily lodged your greasy-stained mouth. The ounce encumbering hypodermically your dainty shoulders no longer transgressed invincibly cordial and the ounce fantastically brilliant whisked with the patchy hollow’s waterfall flowing into the thin air, bearing a semblance of the valley of the sable crystalline evanescence. “I can’t halt my thoughts to flow into the valley of my overwhelmedness!”

“Hey, it’s not your fault you have taken me to the doctor earlier this morning! Your ex-boss isn’t even worth an ounce of respect and obedience!”

“You have the right to say it! I don’t believe on my eyes there are seamlessly selfish people that care about their bums to be ideally clean after the others soiled their hands for their sake.”

“Absolutely! No wonder why you aren’t supposed to worry about your manager that has no mercy for somebody that barely arrives late just because they sacrificed their time to save a valuable life!”

“Yeah! Per se,” Suddenly you muffled with the palm of your solely free petite, creamy hand the gruffly dry, cold-blooded cough crudely fanning the unblemishedly tender skin as your naturally roseate, cherubic lip twitched humdrum as you cleared your throat momentarily. The British aristocrat’s inexorably infectiously worrying his front ivory teeth nipping at the delicate skin of his fleshy bottom lip while razor-edgedly headstrong honing his ears to bloodthirstily hair-rising eavesdrop every adequately constructed utterance of yours formatting your eventual revelation surging through your oral cavern, bearing a semblance of the high-pitchedly despondent tiger’s roar. “I’ll make my mind what to work next where my boss won’t gnaw on me every time whenever I’m late as if it’s a mankind’s big-shot issue at the moment and doesn’t think low of me just because I haven’t arrived in time like a few times at least.”

“You are actually doing the right thing!”

“I know it matters that I should be always punctual without missing any single opportunity to not disappoint the one who hired me to give me a hand to strive for my survival,” The pause’s unwelcomingly nonchalance stung your tongue once you channelized your gray fork to yank a forkful of tiny, wavy tissues entwining circa the tines recklessly, whilst the former devotional member of the clergy retrieved his glass of starkly translucent, relentlessly crystal liquid as his pristinely long, dexterous fingers cradled the compact entity and taking a meekly promising sip hydrating his oral caverns and berry-coloured tongue once he dumped the fork in the plate. A heavy, jaded sigh snorted through your tiny, flexible nostrils at the very thought of your ex-manager and his rawly stringent methods of treating his employees and solemnly oathing to stabilize his business with a handful of unhallowedly spine-chilling, unimaginable compromises he has gifted everyone who served him. “But I may contact either of my friends to work for them even if takes me months to get employeed again.”

“Take your time! When you get the job, you will quickly forget about your former boss and his stringent attitude, you know!”

“That’s correct!”

The heavenly soothing tone spotlighting the British aristocrat’s British lilt in his emboldening utterances leaking the absolute reality’s austerely unwelcoming, unpromising domino masking its wicked façade and plastering the true frontage of the crudely unforgiving, sporadic tribulations agitatedly participating to stumble every courageously obdurate individual to fulfill their ultimate felicity and peace at last. Little did you know how serpahically calm enveloped in divinely versatile wisdom timbres of the former pious clergyman can cast its bewitchingly mesmerizing hex on you as if you were his recent prey of his wonderfully blowminding charm and incredible charisma.

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Couple of Hours Later or So_ \---

\--- _22nd of December, 1964_ \---

Once Boston’s common frigid early wintery evening became a victim of the midnight’s lull or rather transgressing into the very wee hours of the morning formulating the new day’s eve indubitably hasty. Shortly after solemnly vowing one another with the former aspiring Monsignor a good night and crawling back in your beds in two of kind rooms you were separately kipping,

Drowning in the hazily inebriating abysmal ocean of the daydream’s realm of its beehive of unnaturally nirvanic dreams it benevolently graced you to sup graciously each coherently trancing wave, you couldn’t help once you came to your senses and your groggy E/C cabochons landed on the clock on your left nightstand nonetheless. Perusing approximately a quarter of three o’clock in the morning instantaneously dinged recklessly blunt into your vortex of thoughts.

The insomnia’s invincibly invisible spectral furrowed eagerly persistent your very being to deprive you from the beauty coma that graced you with perpetually generating energy and nutrients through the night, bedaubing your tender, fleshy muscles to glide whenever you altered your positions as you flipped your frail skeleton on the other side, in order to articulate its fleetly coveted comfort swaddling your frail skeleton. Notwithstanding the circumstances, the convenient king-sized bed bestowed you with myriad of unconditional warmness, in spite of the icily solitude casting its shadows and demons in the darkest corners of the site and haunting you during your kipping mission.

Seating subconsciously on the edge of the bed and ushering to fashion into balled fists your petite, femininely feather-soft hands into balled fists to rub the infectiously groggy layer of your eyes, subsequently a blatantly blunt yawn bubbled up from your throat and muffling it with the palm of your hand humbly until your E/C roundish bijous didn’t land on the partly opened velvet curtains leaking its nocturnal light piercing the window beamingly and petering out the chances the site to fade into the pitch-black’s oblivion. The evanescence of midnight’s ambience gingerly amiable conducted the phenomenally breathtaking tranquility pitching the background, formulating its rich flock of angels and devils boldly daredevil grumbling its inner voices inside your mind and eavesdropping the lethal numbness of the recent episode’s time. Each promisingly welcoming second ticked unnervingly.

In the interim, the series of conjugated steps trancing into nefariously resilient, surreptitious murmurs against the floor on your expedition to the imminent destination to dart out of the guests’ room and descend the stairway, in case to hydrate yourself just moments before assimilating its alternatives to drift off asleep unthinkably quicker than your vortex of thoughts could articulate the fantastically ideal idea as well. A straight line remarkably adorned your full profile and your virginally dainty, nimble fingers ghostwriting the railing of the elegantly polished stairway until you skittering stealthily inside the kitchen, lingering its recurring reminder to not disturb the former aspiring Monsignor in three o’clock in the morning.

When you stepped inside the kitchen and resuming the pretty guiltless destination for a glass of water during the insomnia’s episode jumpcutting to its celestially precious apogee suffusing its accent to the protagonist, thus the solitude embraced the landscape of your pools of profoundly jaded E/C glazing each detail painting the illustration as you maneuvred your front pearly-white teeth to nibble your upper lip uneasily and approaching the counter in a long stride. Meantime, your petite hand’s virginally smooth fingers managed to retrieve a brilliantly clean, unused yet glass from the kitchen’s cabinet, whereas your only free hand’s tissues worked on the faucets’ turned and moderating the jetting water’s temperature splashing against the marbled surface of the kitchen sink, articulating its restlessly dull symphony tingling alarming tones into your ears.

Arid oblivion conveniently settled in your hurricane of thoughts at the very thought of Timothy’s stealthy sneak ghosting the site’s ambience eerily self-conscious built its fat bricks of icy shivers paradoxally ticklish razzing your spine. The reassuringly seductive, yet otherworldly doldrum waltzed in the site and amicably chaperones you nonetheless. There was always something enigmatically mesmerizing about the tranquility in the very wee hours of the morning, regardless if you shared a roof with your pet, a pearly precious one of a kind relative of yours or otherwise yourself. The reassuringly calm ode of the loneliness can be interpreted in various of versions even when the huge assemble of different perspectives analyze each uniquely meaningful fragment of the isolation’s pluses, minuses and genuine sentiments’ surfing the coherent waves of the stormy tempest inundating the area.

As soon as an opulent mass of liquid cozily rectified to the rim of the flimsy glass and your fingers worked on turning off the faucets immediately, consequently pair of familiar arms snaked circa your waist. Creamily muscular, masculinely strong. The arms’ owner robbed you from the adequate breathing and mobility of your abdomen, sensing its tight bind invitingly granting its oddly unconditional warmness and enticing love suffising ambiguously contagious to apocalyptically assault your worries and loneliness even the glaciers relentlessly villainous buffing the untouched areas.

Little did you know what the former pious man of the cloth was doing during the insomnia’s bloodthirstily morbid episode as well. What you could solely format as a response subconsciously emphatic riposting to the ferociously fiery impulse coursing through your very veins and pulsating into your figure was being caught off guard and timidly flinching at the protectively consoling, doting touch grazing your tissue. Stifling the series of blatantly ruthless, categorically straightforward gasps and indistinctive noises bleated in the thin air and subconsciously chiming into your blizzard of thoughts for eventually unpredictable scenarios if they emerged in the crudely cold world at such bone-chillingly embarrassing moments, a childlikely mousy, contently weak grin curved upon your brim mouth and pursuing boldly for the older gentleman’s ogle impaling your full profile instantly as if his pools of profoundly poetic, warm coffee brown hoodooed each timidly twinkle dancing beneath your optics and the ogle of the wizard, himself, manipulated everything to motion and quiver depending on his bewitching ogle’s hex nuzzling the target.

“Goodness, Timothy! What are you even doing at this time of the morning?”

“I can’t sleep,” All of a sudden, the gracefully warm breath faintly fanned the nape of your breath once dozens of feather-soft affectionate kisses peppered the back of your skull and sensing the heavenly sluggish nuzzle of Timothy’s nose tip brushing the nape of your expanse, admiring the crispy softness of your bare flesh contacting his soft nose. The fiercely wild acceleration of your heart pulses sheepishly severe thumped into your brittle ribcage and syncing its throb into your vulnerable ears. The strong-willed attempts of your fingers grasping firmly the compact entity with transparent liquid ebbed off as you left it aloof on top of the counter and molted candidly into the heartwarmingly affectionate nuzzles and loving kisses, followed by the sensually humble confession almost dying on Timothy’s tongue. “Again, Y/N!”

“What makes you struggling to drift off asleep, darling?”

“It’s just my insomnia that re-appears quite often.” At the moment, the British aristocrat subconsciously ushered you to adjust your posture as your E/C round embers kindled to embrace the vista of the pretty bleakness of the kitchen table except for the sheet of paper glimmering past your eyesight. Bare nonplus at the vista glinted severely luminous into your stare transfixed on the desolated sheet of paper settled on top of the table as well, whereas the delicately pristine, orthodoxy creamy fingertips traced gingerly the very curves of your abdomen and burying his nose tip to inhale solemnly meaningful its authentically deluxe fragrance of the recently used shampoo lubricating every lock of your satin halo ringlet. “Moreover, I wrote something different than just a message. It’s a short poem.”

“What kind of a poem?” A sharp exhale fiery scorched haughtily the older gentleman’s frail lungs at your inquiry, begging for its an immediate response and its childishly innocuous inquisitiveness highlighting the very timbre of your Maryland lilt.

“Aw, it’s better for you to discover it on your own! It’s a surprise, my rara avis!” Pressing his naturally baby-pinkish, brim lips to the top of your head to elaborate its cherubically nirvanic peck, afterwards you channelized to approach the dining table categorically and your digits working on yanking the blank as your E/C rotund minerals examined in a studiously wary scrutiny every detail and its prominently ebony ink etching every letter of the wee poem paged up.

** **Big Cheese** **

** **I didn’t know what the life’s destiny has cooked for me** **

** **Except the life is full of surprises** **

** **Whether raw or freshly prepared!** **

** **I was questioning myself yet once I joined the church** **

** **That no girl will ever dare to apparoch me** **

** **Or at least making my own efforts** **

** **To keep in touch with her!** **

** **The big cheese is the one** **

** **That has landed her beautifully diamond eyes** **

** **On that work and currently reading** **

** **My thoughts flowing in its brilliantly crystalline** **

** **Waterfall of my fantasies tantalizing me brutally!** **

** **I don’t know how incredibly lucky can I be** **

** **Especially right now!** **

** **Her beautifully diamond eyes scanning** **

** **Each letter etching the word** **

** **Of my very thoughts!** **

** **Her brilliantly sparkling smile casted at me** **

** **As if the demon has plans for me** **

** **But she is the purest angel of God!** **

** **Her majestically comforting voice** **

** **Touched prominently by the heavenly** **

** **Nirvana of her angelic very being!** **

** **I feel like I’m the big cheese’s forbidden fruit** **

** **Beneath the Eden’s green highlands** **

** **Being her favorite and only fruit!** **

** **Her glossy lion mane of H/C flawless strands** **

** **Framing elegantly her stunning profile!** **

** **Her voice** **

** **Her smile** **

** **Her altruistically sympathetic nature** **

** **Are the very reasons of my glee!** **

** **The big cheese of my glee** **

** **She’s the one of a kind angel** **

** **I have never found anywhere else in my life** **

** **It felt like a missed opportunity** **

** **Until she just appeared in my life** **

** **Or somehow God reunited us** **

** **Like his prominent God Messengers!** **

** **A poem for my lovely rara avis Y/N** **

“Timothy,” Opting to catch your breath per a couple of seconds as a helplessly broad, huge grin embroidered on your face crinkled your youthful lower eyelids and turning to face him instanteously once you pursued courageously for his very reaction at your initial enthralled impression at the beatifically impressive poem he has poured his entire heart and train of thoughts to delight you. Unimaginable euphoria meaningfully marvelous cloaked your facial features at the breathtakingly poetic, encouraging words and shifting your utter attention to the former holy priest as you threw your satin arms to brace him in an amicable, tight hug sealing the very space you traded with one another. “That’s really splendid! I genuinely love that poem. I just don’t have the words to describe your exquisite talent poured in every verse!”

“It’s only for you, my rare bird! You are the true reason why I’m still awake and it forced me to write it for you!”

** **Author's Note: Since we are slowly but surely descending to the sweetest moments awaiting Timothy and the female reader, of course, as a writer I know what I'm actually doing with the story and what surprises are awaiting my dear readers! ** **

** **What are your thoughts on the chemistry and the relationship bonded together Timothy and the female reader trade with each other? Do you think the female reader is going to work for one of her friends or she will be employed somewhere else? ** **

** **Don't forget once you have read this chapter and you have truly enjoyed it to leave a feedback! I'd like to hear your thoughts! I hope you like and enjoy this chapter as well! Stay tuned for the forthcoming updates! :)) <3** **


	34. Christmas Eve's Mirth

** ** ** **

** **Author's First Note: Hello everybody! I know due to the flu epidemy in my city which means that the updates will be more regular even if I have written less than I have thought in the past few days for which I genuinely apologize since I'm opting to collect some energy and motivation through the wee breaks I vow myself. I'm opting to please all of my dear readers, regardless the slight postpone of the updates. ** **

** **I'm also planning to create an intro or a wee trailer for Hypodermic Transgression as I did with Wings of Light. If you haven't checked it out Wings of Light's intro, it is solely accessible to all viewers on my Twitter and IG for my books nxnsxgnorsdxmonstories!** **

** **Notwithstanding the notes, I'm wishing you a beloved reading journey as well! :))** **

** ** ** **

****🔮**** _Here we are again  
Just face to facing _****🔮****

\--- *********** \---

\--- _Two Days Later or So _\---

Just two days after not only losing your job due to your bluntly ruthless, villainously stringent boss who barely had an ounce of daredevil tolerance for your second late arrival at work, but also paying a visit to the doctor office in the company of the British aristocrat, the fleetly versatile pace of the days’ progression bled into the Christmas Eve’s merry twilight. The starless horizon’s silver loneliness joined in the flock of translucently crystalline, monumental hoary clouds mounting up the sky. The severely ferocious waltz of the flock of alabaster, tiny snowflakes pelting down sluggishly everything below the airy sanctum formed its rich pile of new snowy homes. The sunlessness climate couldn’t even dare to impale swelteringly to magnify its solar filter slowly but surely melting the rich waterfall of snow efficiently infectious populating the small city of Massachusetts.

In the past few days, you and Timothy decided to stay at home in general, besides doing a wee shopping for the impending Christian holidays emphatically without even daring to set foot inside the outdoors’ impressively monumental, ethereally timeless space. The sole exception that would be pearly compensated was playing on the snow and treasuring dearly every precious moment you have separated from the chores, the ordinarily outstanding conversations you traded and the regular knacks as well. Every kind of an ingredient for preparing the ideal Christmas dinner table’s dilemma and emulating ultimately to the Christmas ambience’s extraordinarily delightful additions impaled your train of thoughts to construct your own individual celebration without further gathers of your inner circle members at all. Just two of you.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, everybody had their own family or rather just small circle of close friends with whom they could spend their excitingly one of a kind celebration of the Christian holiday. Even if certain nobodies’ families were no longer ghosting the crudely cold world’s roundish sphere and fueling their beloved relatives’ hearts with unconditional warmness and celestially vast love, yet their last hope to have a beatific Christmas with somebody else that took a special place in their hearts couldn’t hurt anyway.

In the wee hours of the morning, you got up early approximately in seven o’clock and being in no hurry at all, besides brushing you teeth and discarding your pyjamas as you dolled up in a mere peach sweater with embroidered swarm of pitch-black polka dots paired with conveniently casual pair of denim jeans hugging your petite-frame. During your very presence’s population in the kitchen to brew its caffeine liquid on the hob, at the moment the former aspiring Monsignor was upstairs taking a lukewarm shower to fiendishly refresh his own train of thoughts and lubricate his delicately palish epidermis with stark cleanness due to his stringently decent hygiene.

In the meanwhile, the shower head’s beehive of wee gaps severely steamed its translucently crystalline jet water peppering the former ambitious Monsignor’s short mop of sopping chestnut strands fabulously plastering his head and matching with his charmingly youthful facial attributes. The freshness of the jet water splashing vigorously agitated against his epidermis and the fantastically crystal beads maneuvering to ripple his overall arms and legs. The dully serene symphony of the restless cataract of jet water floated in the bathroom. The curtain shower promisingly obscured the British compatriot’s nude frail skeleton for eventual embarrassing moments in the future if you have accidentally bumped into the bathroom upstairs.

Moreover, the once hideously luxurious layer of fiendish filth clinging to Timothy’s bare, milky flesh of his frail skeleton unceasingly unremitting dissipated in the starkly relentless oblivion accompanying the perfectly normal pungent reek of human sweat lubricating his shoulders and genitalias. Honey-mouthedly indistinctive, hedonistic hums foamed his straight line adorning prominently his porcelain, still youthful complexion. Maneuvering his virginally long, bony fingers cradled gently the lathered sponge to trounce each ounce of filth his overall figure at last, besides kneading recklessly ruthless its shampoo to overspread his short mop of chestnut strands.

The logically real motive behind the lukewarmness unremittingly intensifying to filter the water’s temperature was not only due to the yet recovering demon claws’ vindictively bloodthirsty, unimaginably hair-rising wound to not have any interactions with the infernally sweltering liquid, but also to refresh his vortex of thoughts and to get rid off of the filth and unspeakable sweat that was clinging to his large-frame. Even if Timothy was somehow a keen fan of keeping his physique neat and keeping himself in shape by following childlikely mousy his balanced healthy diet and shaving his facial hair per a couple of days when the sea of masculinely thickly, darkly kinky wire of beard wielding its rich crop until the razor-edged shaver didn’t bedaub discretely its foamed facial skin, anyway he mustered up to not agitate the demon claws’ wound and to save some hot water.

As soon as his drenched tissues worked on the faucets’ twist to peter out its running jet water, thereafter Timothy dashed out of the shower and wrapped a freshly clean navy blue towel securing his pelvis as its vehemently happy hem flared across his ankles, bestowing its fabric obscuring to the starkly blood-curdling, unspeakable absolute reality’s real prospect of his most discreet body areas. Solely his muscly, masculinely potent arms and toned, hairy torso amenably dawdled its nudity to the natural daylight silver light streaming through the windows of his sufficiently expansive bedroom.

When the former devotional member of the church finished with showering and ventured up inside his bedroom to get dressed up and dry his hair naturally with the towel, consequently he careened out of the site within a couple of minutes and docilely manipulated its series of monotonously diligent footsteps ghostwriting the floor and the lacquered stairway on his mission to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Tim!” All of a sudden, you shifted your utter attention to the older gentleman setting foot inside the kitchen once your pristinely dainty fingers lingered on the hob’s knobs eventually and settling the kettle on top of the counter comfy to pour its brown caffeine liquid deposited in the both individually clean, still unused mugs at last. The oscilattion your E/C roundish gemstones took turns to prong his very presence and the kettle, following in the corner of your eye the purely dexterous channelize of your dainty fingers crooked around the kettle’s handle.

“Morning, rare bird!” You couldn’t help, nonetheless, sinfully helpless buffing your nude, angelically cherub lips into a vibrantly sympathetic smiles tugging at the corner of your lips. The silver-tonguedly heavenly, calm tones of the older gentleman’s informal address bonding the friendly special nickname molted your flimsy heart and rabidly rapid accelerating its unthinkable paces thumping into your ribcage. The light shades of cherry severely cheerful dredged hopelessly ruthless your façade at last. Nothing could dethrone the ultimately golden, unimaginably intoxicating felicity simmering your very cells and muscles to twitch bashfully at each cordially heartwarming compliment you obtained eventually. “I just took a fresh, lukewarm shower and I wanted to save some hot water, besides to be careful with my wound on my abdomen!”

“I see. How are you feeling actually?”

“I’m feeling slightly better, but there’s nothing new under the sun!” The haphazardness of your dexterous channelize to grapple the pair of cups of freshly brewed coffee shortly after dumping the kettle with luxurious pool of transparent liquid pronging its rim, consequently you served the entities on top of the kitchen table and seated against Timothy, stabilizing blood-curdlingly headstrong the adequate maintenance of your eye contact. “The wound is getting better even if it is mildly irritable to feel its restless pain pulsating beneath my abdomen’s skin.”

“At least, let’s not forget that there’s apparently somewhat a progress with the wound’s recovery.” Crooking your pristinely spidery fingers circa the entity’s handle, thereafter you lifted it up to take a docilely hedonistic sip and then leaving it aloof on top of the furniture as you managed to cross your legs lazily. “It’s just the same with the achievements you are aiming to headstrongly. Even if the tiniest ounce of progress means much more than absolute nothing, Tim!”

“I have to fairly agree with you, however, I can’t complain about it, because it would be deadly pathetic of my side to whine for something that takes days even weeks to get rid off it.”

“Fair enough!” Shortly after the starkly nimble manipulation of your feminine Adam’s apple flex to slug a handful of wee sips from the brown liquid for second time even when your spidery fingers dawdled to drift somewhere else to barely inch, subsequently you muffled with the palm of your petite, smooth hand its blatantly gruff cough to clear your throat. The medley of the eloquently mirthful birdsongs, the aggressive howl of the ferociously glacial wind and the honey-mouthedly inviting ballad of the snowfall chirped the background accompanying the brittle drum of your fingertips against the frail material of the mug. “It’s a wee weird how the Christmas tree hasn’t been even settled in the living room.”

“It’s better late than never to bring it in the living room and get ready for its prominent decoration, you know!” A heavy sigh surged through the former aspiring Monsignor’s brittle lungs as his virginally slim, soft fingers stilled to toy with the entity’s handle until they sluggishly perpetual ghostwrote the dining table’s surface and snatched timidly your elvish hand into his grapple instaneously categorical. The abruptness of the knitted fingers apt to tandem ferrying its invincibly restive blizzard of sweltering heat hypodermically vandalizing your spine and awfully noxious pervading your overall frail skeleton flabbergastingly spellbinded its bewitching hex on you, breaking your facial expression even when you diabolically bold drifted your stare to spear your knitted fingers in its welcomingly doting grapple. “We have the whole time of the world to do it together, Y/N! We are in no hurry at the moment. Nothing can stop us!”

\--- *********** \---

\--- _A Couple of Hours Later or So_ \---

“And here we go with the garlands!” At the moment, the former pious man of the cloth dawdled his very presence ghosting warily the wooden ladder whilst the pair of your elvish, smooth hand’s spidery fingers crooked around the ladder and clawing its entity to stabilize the extra weight interpolating between enfolding the glittering aureate garlands circa the giant Christmas tree, fashionably matching with the ocean of variety of balls of medley of red, aureate and silver ornamenting its branches.

The ominously noxious optimism and profoundly vibrance suffused the living room in the wee hours of the afternoon on your mission to ornament eventually the giant Christmas tree. The wintery daylight’s hoary light pierced the gigantic French window in the room and bestowing you and the former aspiring Monsignor with a generous layer of natural palish light pale enough to filter fashionably even the darkest outskirts that was formatting its sinisterly unavoidable shadows and demons’ enigmatic lair. The enigmatic lair of the skeletons in the closet’s mission to be leaked eventually. The outskirts of the eeriness in the middle of the most tranquil, the resiliently suffocated by the crickets’ eloquently elating chirps and the farther noises of the fiercely mischievous dance of the zephyr outdoors’ zone. Or rather the sacredly safe site of the medley of divine enigma, the elating nirvana of the nonchalance and the gruesomely spine-chilling haunting waltz of the shadows and the demons.

The epidemic plague of divinely broad, vibrantly soothing grins curving upon your nude pink, angelically cherub lips and the severely endemic crinkles of your lower eyelids asphyxiated your charming facial attributes. The sheer radiance graining each ounce of your unblemished facial skins.

A half an hour ago you ventured up in the living room to embellish together the gigantic pine tree with its beamingly authentic ornaments coiling the very branches of the entity. The decoration’s style wasn’t formulating its gruesomely pure perfectionism, the brilliantly aesthetic ambience epidemically imbued each perspective transfixed on surveying in a studious scrutiny the pine tree nonetheless.

“It looks very magnificent! Doesn’t it?” The suddenness of the sweet, beamingly emboldening meow sloppily slipped from your oral slit didn’t vanish into the thin air, offering the British compatriot a benevolently beaming, broadly inviting grin tugging at the corner of your lip morbidly, whilst pronging his pools of poetically deep coffee brown chasing fiery eager yours.

“Of course, my rare bird! With your help, everything we do look more than magnificent than I could even picture it!” A girlishly coy, ominously blunt snicker emerged from your throat as its vibration seethed your feminine Adam’s apple at the kindheartedly emboldening words of the former holy priest, whereas your shoulders conjugated a sheepish shrug at his silver-tongued tone puncturing his compliment and the friendly nickname, his pools of abysmally piercing coffee brown luminously ablaze with luxurious cataract of glowing glitter of starkly heinous ecstasy and optimism even when his pair of copper-framed eyeglasses perched motionlessly on top of the bridge of his nose.

“I’m undeniably proud of your work for a half an hour which can be done in a New York.”

“Take it easy!” Shooting a nimble wink at you, throughout a contagiously rich powder of blush comfortably inscribed your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks whilst guarding the wooden ladder and the box of Christmas tree’s cluster of trinklets that bone-chillingly rapid emptied within every retrieve of an item that was a fantastically great addition to the Christmas spirits’ heavy escalation. “Could you give me the Christmas star, darling?” Suddenly you hunkered down to retrieve the frail glassy scarlet Christmas star from the box that was the sole unused yet part of the Christian holiday’s outstandingly delightful bauble as well.

“Anything for you, darling!” When you maneuvered to straighten your posture and handing the decorative star to the older man, throughout his mouth purred a despondently spontaneous groan under his breath while attempting to settle comfy the compact entity on top of the tree, whereas you darted your E/C rotund minerals mirthfully examining in a scrutiny the process of the tinsel at last.

“This shining star is a great addition to the Christmas spirits and to this monumental tree!” Working his virginally delicate fingers cradling the material on his performance to descend the ladder, afterwards the adequate maintenance of meager proximity graced you to draw one another into a tight, amiable embrace and following meekly its violent sync of your heart pulses trashing into your chests as you buried your face in the crook of his delicate, alabaster expanse. “I’m genuinely grateful for your tremendous help, my rara avis!”

“No need to, Tim!” A couple of vowels and syllables persistently clashing for domination for a split second subsequently conjugated your candidly vibrant purr foaming your mouth as you fastened the embrace with your femininely silken arms tightening the brace at last, whereas you sensed twain of mammoth, masculinely soft hands cradling your middle gingerly and the digits of his fingers humbly brushing the rigid fabric of your sweater. 

** **Author's Final Note: I'd like to apologize for the slightly sloppy chapter, nevertheless, I opted to update sooner than later which is better and it's genuinely stressful if it's not being updated in awhile and postponing with the updates as well. ** **

** **For unknown reason, I genuinely love the female reader and Timothy as a pairing and their doubtlessly potent chemistry. What about you too?** **

** **The impending new chapters will be full of surprises anyway! If you genuinely liked and enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to leave a feedback! Don't be shy! :))** **


	35. Bolt From The Blue


      **✝ **
      _Just think happy thoughts_
    

_And we'll fly home. _ **✝**

\--- ***** **\---  
\--- _A Several Hours Later or So _\---

Once the Christmas Eve's episode slowly but surely became a victim of the commonly frigid, nevertheless, gracefully esthetic night looking the small city of Massachusetts' sky like a floating tiny leaf pelting down once the fashionably light autumn breeze waltzed, thereafter the dining table in the kitchen was cozily equipped with a couple of authentically unique bowls and plates full of scrumptious meatless meals. The dining table's uniquely meaningful ornament wasn't solely interpreted in the troop of bowls, dishes and a bottle of creamy wine remarkably deposited, besides the very dances of the fiendishly jovial, tiny flares of the ignited candlesticks, but also the efficiently authentic notion of coziness and familiarity imbuing the kitchen's ambience and high spirits in general.

Just an hour before midnight and having a handful of glasses of white wine, consequently the absolute convenience inculcated the couch that was occupied by your and Timothy's frail skeletons curling up in a promisingly inviting, doting snuggle binding your almost immobile muscles. The genuinely sultry sensation of the warm, luscuously afflictive wine-stained breaths faintly fanning the nape of your neck and a luxurious batch of electrifying horripilation spiking your delicate epidermis momentarily. The incessant contraction of your eyelids while trading magnificently bewitching ogles kindling the very flares of the fierce passion, murderous desire and savage love formatting its outstanding medley.

The indubitably stable firmness of the affectionate snuggle on the couch bonded you in every single way your one of a kind, potent chemistry's potential. The spirituality and the mentality of sensing two of kind nobodies truly made for each other not mewling any single word except solemnly dedicating themselves to the brilliantly crystal doldrum asphyxiating the Christmas Eve's nocturnal episode accompanied by the hallowed symphony of hitched breaths and meekly quiet moans scorching banefully your berry-coloured tongues. 

“It’s so cozy there, Y/N!” At the moment, the heavenly intoxicating nuzzle against your button nose channelized to chime you molting one another into an angelically breathtaking Eskimo kiss, meagerly inching your youthful façades from one another. In the meantime, your femininely velvet, seamless arms braced the older gentleman’s muscly upper back, whereas the heart pulses’ vehemently megawatt accelerated due to the preternaturally intoxicating intimacy syncing the meager distance.

“Yeah especially with the exact company to keep you letting you hair down,” A quarter a minute after molting solemnly into the starkly bewitching Eskimo kiss, throughout you manifested your naturally roseate, insatiable cherub lips to press a forceful peck to the older gentleman’s nose, shepherding categorically its piercingly jovial, noxious snickers purring seamlessly beneath its wee scale of proximity you traded with each other eventually. Broadly angelic grins enchased meaningfully precious across your nude, cherub lips and rippling your lower eyelids that endured stoical the ethereally ominous mirth ornamenting its luxurious luster on your façades. “However, it’s such a humongous honor to share Christmas with you, Tim!” Honeyed purr expelled villainously baneful from your mouth whilst dawdling your pools of abysmally vibrant E/C pronging Timothy’s cinnamon brown, bearing a semblance of satelites’ thin elasticity preternaturally stealthy retroacting to the adequate stabilization kindling its very flares in the bewitchingly spellbind eye contact. Or it could be interpreted also as the uniquely authentic art of eye contact and its twain of moons plowing into each other inevitably apocalyptic as if the Judgdmental’s day loomed on the horizon, besides staining deleteriously the invisibly unstoppable clock of the unnerving tick of the progressing time.

“It’s rather a huge honor for me to share it with the person that truly supports and respects every ounce of my character even decisions.” The suddenness of the emboldeningly honeyed coo bubbling up from Timothy’s strawberry-coloured, wet tongue, throughout you registered to worry your pearly-white front teeth to nip the amenably tender raw spot of your bottom lip. The stark altruism profusely simmered its efficiently epidemic angelic anthems’ hammer into your amenable ears escorting docilely its British lilt’s breathtakingly deep inevitable chroma. The crude emphatic motion of your process to straighten your petite-frame shortly after readjusting obdurately categorical your posture and writhing sinisterly iron-willed from the British aristocrat’s kindly tight wreath. “Where are you going, my rare bird?” Dawdling its wide grin tattooed on his parchment, freshly young-looking profile, the British aristocrat sprawled to alter his reclining posture categorically shortly after you dumped its sufficient scale of space to him on the sofa at last, the desperately inquisitiveness seethed its soar lump coating his Adam’s apple at posing the question. The perkily tipsy tones darkened each etched vowel and syllable that once deftly conjugated his sentence’s formation.

Even the inexorably sore tipsiness was a desperate medley of sheer ecstasy, invincible vibrance and subtle despondency draining every pure ounce of soberness and aptitude composing its own ode agitatedly refining its timbre. His cinnamon brown moons’s luminously crystalline glint danced boldly and hardly shrouding even modicum of his inebriety that extraordinarily took a toll on him and efficiently headstrong let its opulent stream of its unhallowed blood to surge through his veins. The wide grins streamed its thousand patterns of mirth prominently inscribed its outstanding curves of your facial features.

“To the kitchen!” Then you channelized to muffle with the palm of your petite, creamy hand its dryly gruff cough faintly fanning its tender fleshy skin seconds before scampering out of the living room on your imminent brief destination to the kitchen since your strawberry-coloured tongue sinfully blood-curdling yearned for its liquor to grind forward on its mission to be slogged rabidly rapid. “Do you need something?”

“Not at all!”

“Alright! I’ll be back in a half a minute, sweetie!” The friendly nickname conveyed its outstandingly heartwarming reminder to the British compatriot to melt into your mischievously sardonic jape almost dying on your tongue whilst you darted a deftly playful wink at him.

Little did the British compatriot know what kind of a brief destination you would organize to the kitchen and barbarically curt adjourning its authentically marvelous snuggle you exchanged with each other. Abundance of hazy speculations balefully enshrouded his hurricane of thoughts and suffused its ferociously aggressive howl of its whiff of short-lived exemplars that may cease from his rich imagination.

In the interval, the former ambitious Monsignor readjusted his posture and supporting the back of his skull with his mammoth, masculinely potent hand as its crispy softness of his chestnut strands beneath his virginally gentle digits of his fingers and fingertips. His gaze fixated on its untouchably timeless target as if a mindless corpse’s bijous lingered its contraction of its everlasting widening process spearing unimaginably hair-rising its surroundings’ vista, boring his smoky quartz bijous into the ethereal tiresomeness somehow encouraging to asphyxiate its unnerving tick of the elapsing seconds. The artistically artificial light dimly suffused its altruistic mantle to seek its shelter even the darkest corners of the site as well. It was rather the genuine notion of a celestially unthinkable paradise. Poetically untouchable non-verbally except the art of poured short poems and words into a handful of verses articulating fluently its creator’s luxurious waterfall of creativity, medley of metaphors, epithets and hyperboles depicting every discreet detail peculiarly.

The words flourishing its profoundly superlative rendition of poems that spoke volumes and showed its true colors of every decanted emotion and sentiment inside its vigorously simmering cauldron of crystal liquid along with the clump of diversity of translucent bubbles effervescing saturated every verse’s enigmatic aura.

The spate of footsteps drumming blood-curdlingly bashful against the floor once you scuttled out of the site and marched to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of vanilla liquor motionlessly cozy ensconcing on the countertop, whereas your E/C rotund depths landed on the entity and your fingers maneuvered to work on removing the wooden tap, thereafter pouring its seamlessly luscious alcoholic beverage in the emptied, already used goblets that exchanged a couple of inches distance with the bottle.

In a half a minute after grappling the goblets as your pristinely dainty fingers crooked around the flimsy material while wobbling warily to the living room, consequently the abruptness of the former holy priest as he stood from the sofa on his mission to gentlemanly obtain the glasses of white wine in his promisingly welcoming grasp of his long, slim fingers when the proximity of you and the coffee table was no more than a couple of inches.

“You don’t need to torture yourself with that kind of a task!” The insatiably scrumptious wine’s fragrance rapidly mirthful wafted into your tiny, flexible nostrils as soon as the former aspiring Monsignor settled the glasses on top of the coffee table eventually, whereas you emitted a vaguely girlish, flabbergasted chuckle at the exceedingly meaningful aid you obtained even if it was for a petty task. “I got this, Y/N!” The inescapably shrewd smirk broadly lolling in the corner of the older man’s baby-pinkish, deliciously brim lip glimmered up its vibrantly morbid canvas of blight and seating alongside one another on the couch once again after the cursory terminus to the kitchen for less than a minute that was hardly malignaly exhausting.

“How sweet of you, Tim!” When you managed to roost your rears on the convenient furniture, thereafter you inclined quirkly your eyebrow at the vast amicability of Timothy as you pursued for each other’s ogles immediately, offering each other childishly gullible, pixilated grins even when the sudden flourish of his smirk into a grin significantly tranced. “What a good turn!”

“Why you have to be thankful so much even when there are times you aren’t forced to do anything constantly?”

“Well,” Thickness spine-chillingly vindictive coated his throat once your pristinely gentle fingers manifested to snatch in its stubbornly stable grasp the entities and raising a toast jovially with barking teasingly giggles which the living room’s walls witnessed its mellifluously down-to-earth twilight stealthily sneaking down to resuscitate the two-story mansion reckoning every room sunk in its relentless jet-black darkness. “Is it too much needed to explain myself again?” The pure undertones of satire vindictively baleful punctured your rhetorical inquiery shortly after the sharp clink of the glasses and subsequently wrapping your lips circa the rim of the goblet to meekly slug a handful of tiny, vulnerable sips from the light alcoholic beverage.

“You have been through plenty of tribulations and I think it’s high time for you to take a break from everything that just drains every healthily functioning muscle,” The honey-mouthedly mellifluous purr blatantly jingled its angelic hymns into your ears as soon as you left aside the goblets on top of the coffee table, while the former devotional member of the church manipulated his virginally dexterous, feather-soft fingers to reach for a fistful of your lion mane and tucking its ferociously obdurate strands behind your ear gracefully. The altruistic benevolence thickly cocooned demandingly his murmur speaking volumes. What it could tear your frail heart off is exactly the current caution of the former devotional member of the church gracefully keeping your wits about and opting to lovingly soothe you, whereas you dropped your head otiosely atop his broadly muscular, comfortable shoulder resembling an urgently soft cloud swaddling you during the entire night and the very wee hours of the morning. “What do you think, Y/N?”

“I have mustered up enough to deal with my own shit and so forth.”

“Sometimes a helping hand is enough to grant you what you exactly need without even asking for it.”

“Fair enough!”

“Look what, my rare bird!” The unsacredly razor-edged emphasis of his British lilt in his persistent attempts to absorb your attention incessantly assertively manipulated your heart to skip a beat at the exceeding news he would break momentarily even with husking a handful of words that were sufficient to reimburse a pearly precious time and great deal of efforts for a sheerly straightforward revelation polishing severely the protagonist’s very intentions. “Asking or not asking for help by earning it doesn’t make you weak and pathetic at all! I truly comprehend you that you have always dealt with any kind of an ordeal on your own, nevertheless, believe me there were a few times when you couldn’t do on your own all alone.” Inexorable glacial lake coursed through your very veins and struggling to moderate your temperature at the silver-tongued timbre waltzing majestically the British compatriot’s mew dripping from his mouth, whilst boring his smoky quartz gemstones into yours recklessly enticing. “You can even admit it, sweetheart!”

“Y-Yes!” The haphazardness of docilely elaborating to bob your head in solemn agreement followed by a sheepish stammer foaming your wine-stained oral slit teasingly ticklish twitched your fleshy muscles of your throat to bob once swigging its bitter lump. “Darling, I have thought of playing Truth or Dare! Would you mind?”

“Of course not! Who’s starting first?”

“Your turn!” Swatting amiably sympathetic his upper back with the flat of your elvish, femininely smooth hand, consequently you bleated a blatantly emboldening hiss venomously serpentine wobbling to its ultimate release, while a jadedly heavy sigh snorted severely through Timothy’s nose.

“No, no!” Shaking his head in solemn disagreement to reaffirm his emphatic position, meantime, you knitted elegantly your brows to the bridge of your nose while struggling to sort your mind and sensing its hypodermically sweltering, unpreventably indomitable canvas of cherry hues darkened your well-sculptured, chubby cheeks with its healthy colour articulating your severe modesty spotlighting your majestic facial features. “The ladies first!”

“Okay so,” A brief pause stung the fat of your berry-coloured, wet tongue seconds before utterly adequate formatting your enquiry during the headstrongly bloodthirsty clash of vowels and syllables for indubitably hedonistic domination, whereas the refreshingly uneasy process of sorting your blizzard of thoughts absorbed the former pious man of the cloth’s ultimate focus drifted to you eventually. Meanwhile, the promising dangle of your fingers circa the goblet to lug its light-heavy entity to take a humble, mouth-wateringly hedonistic sip hydrating your oral caverns, afterwards, you left it aloof on top of the furniture. “What is the most stupid thing you have done in front of a crowd?”

“Hmm! Once I was ten years old, there was one of my closest friends who weren’t even pious at all and his parents were rather pure atheists that solemnly believing in Satan and the vile in general.”

“Mhm!” Managing a merely diligent nod of your head, you honed your ears razor-edgedly to the monologue of the British compatriot.

“One day we were hanging out like crazy buns running wildly around in his sufficiently expansive yard while his parents were setting the barbeque. Mostly grilled fish, you know!” Suddenly you ushered to readjust your seating posture promptly due to the exuberant accommodation while thickly stealthy clamminess plated your digits and fingertips, stilling your passionately intoxicated grin adorning your profile. “It was a mid-summer day as well which makes great sense, in spite of the ordinary London’s lukewarm summer we are being through due to the regular rain and severe ocean of clouds outnumbering the sun. It was amidst the weirdest days I have ever been in my whole life.”

“Oh!”

“That’s not at all! Even Caleb’s parents once attracted my attention by suggesting me to read the Satan’s Bible, although my tremendous piousness. I thought they have completely lost their mind. I thought they were planning some kind of a joke to plant on me.”

“Go ahead!”

“Once they gave me the Satan’s Bible, I remember so far that once I got at home, my parents’ mortified widened eyes landed on the unhallowed exemplar which wasn’t presumed to be in my hands. It was like against all norms, according to them.” All of a sudden, lingering to coil a fistful of your glossy H/C locks, admiring its crispy softness of your hair, yet the former ambitious Monsignor registered to slug instantaneously his whole glass of vanilla wine. “They begun questioning me if those neighbours’ nuclear family had given me that cursed Literature even if they deeply know I have been pious since young age and I would be more excited than my siblings to attend the church once a week.” The haphazardness of wedging nimbly your nude wine-stained lips into a pensive purse during the intensifyingly bone-chilling monologue urged you to focus entirely on each shed word. “I was a little boy then. I was far cry from headstrong enough to say no to the unholy Literature which was actually set on fire by me since my parents forced me in front of my neighbours and siblings. It happened actually just a few days after everything was staged.”

“That’s doubtlessly bizarre!”

“I know right!” The frigidly bare embarrassment heavily pelted down the older gentleman’s short response whilst maneuvering his solely free hand’s neatly trimmed small fingernails to scratch his scalp, whilst pensively licking his upper and lower plumpish lips, savoring its sinfully scrumptious alcoholic beverage’s brilliantly crystal layer lubricating his fleshy oral slit. “It’s your turn, Y/N!”

“If you were marooned on an island with one person whom you know personally,” Shortly before elaborating strong-willedly its rationally logical enquiry that was absorbed in its outstanding capacity, a heavy snort surged through your nostrils at last. “Who would like it to be that person?”

**Author's Final Note: Hi my dear fans, followers and friends! I'd like to thank you for your tremendous patience for slowburns that have their own moments with dramas and so forth, besides your tremendous support and appreciation you are bestowing this book! I know it's really in the middle of the book like 35th chapter is one of the most unique exemplars for certain scale of the audience mass, anyway there is more to expect as sequel and tribulations. **

**What are your thoughts on the cliffhanger? **

**What do you think we're looking forward to the female reader within a couple of chapters at least?**

**Do you genuinely enjoy stories with a fictional character/ celebrity x the reader? If yes or no, why? **

**I almost forgot to mention that if you are having some kind of fanarts of my books like Wings of Light, Possible Second Chance and Hypodermic Transgression, feel free to DM me! I'd genuinely appreciate it. **

**I'd like to hear your thoughts and don't forget that if you candidly enjoyed this chapter to leave a feedback! I hope you liked and enjoyed everything from the prologue up to this chapter. :)) **


	36. Their Voices Reside

_➳_ ** Will I just fall to pieces**

**Or am I alright?** _➳_

\--- ***** **\---

"Well," Crudely heavy sigh foamed your brittle lungs whilst lingering your pristinely dainty fingers crooked around the goblet swamped partly with its promiscously sinful, overwhelmingly insatiable liquor glimmering past your peripheral gaze. The controversially overwhelming, sinisterly obstinate process of attempting to sort your mind during the enquiry that ever asphyxiated the very walls of the living room and the meager scale of adequately intimate proximity you traded with one another, inevitably megawatt abraded its tension. A sheepishly huge grin crawled beneath your roseate lips, and flexing your facial muscles whilst struggling to elaborate a girlishly mellifluous giggle. "Isn't it too apparent?"

"Sure!" At the moment, the British compatriot maneuvered its stroll to the chest of drawers as his meek footsteps truly relaxing barked against the carpeted floor, accompanying his melodiously sardonic chuckle clicking the roof of his mouth. Little did you know what he was actually up to by judging his cryptic manners and body language articulated in every authentically unique motion. "I am still keeping in mind that those dear friends of you with whom we shared Thanksgiving, you are going to bring with yourself!"

"Do you think you have guessed the correct answer?" The mischievous tipsy undertones' tangoing your etched vowels and syllables formation of your inquiry couldn't stifle even the very flares' tender inflammation, fierily scorching the older gentleman's emphatically guttural snigger elaborating its lump's vibration seething his Adam apple. Regardless his condition, whether the alcohol taking a grave toll on him or the soberness infernally ferocious brimming its ineludibly eternal torrent of blood, surging through his very veins like the stormiest tempest, forcefully utmost erecting its preternaturally monumental waves, ready to slap the celestially smooth gilded sandy blanket scrunching the bare feet in a fresh summer afternoon, yet you would postpone to fulfill your task, or rather, solemnly honing your ears to elaborate its eavesdrop of his deeply heavy, honey-mouthed lilt etched graciously his ballad.

"I doubt that you would like to bring with yourself a square on a desolated island, Y/N!" The cusp of noxious pessimism and vindictive wryness prominently boiled the British aristocrat's jeering, whereas his virginally strong fingers toyed with the second drawer knob and subsequently channelizing to pull it forcefully towards his larger frame, which divided a meager distance with the furniture. "Why haven't you closed your eyes?"

"You haven't even told me so."

"Don't be childish, rara avis!" At the moment, the older man's fleet derision darkened the very timbre of his caution as his cinnamon brown huge, rotund abysses flicked up at you, impaling your being as if you were one of the devil's amenably hopeless preys of his demonically colossal claws that apt to revitalize the sore affliction chasing you down even in a majestically mere, piercing gaze. As usually, the older man wasn't passionately looking forward to revel in the unpreventably noxious alcohol's plague, streaming its childlikely vigorous wavelets dilating and diving in the heinously endless sea of drunkness's remnants and aftermaths to submerge him. Notwithstanding his absent fervor to regulate the swigged glasses of sinfully insatiable liquor sweetening with its bitterly cloying flavor his tongue tip, he sometimes couldn't stifle his inner voices' bluntly blatant, heinously ear-splitting roars stimulate his motivation even to crook his pristinely silken fingers circa the alcoholic beverage's bottle to pour himself. You have embraced Timothy with his outstanding imperfections and incontrovertibly positive traits formatting his one of a kind persona. Once the godlessly luscious alcoholic beverage's endemic scent wafted into the prey's amenably tiny nostrils and softly inhaling its unkindly pervasive aroma suffusing the thin air's scale of space it traded with the victim, there was no escape except for not even daring to exchange a meager distance, besides not savouring the liquor at all. "If you just don't close your eyes, therefore it won't be a surprise anymore. Be on the ball!"

Lingering his barbarically outspoken, profoundly poetic smoky quartz abysses on you, consequently an eerily guttural chuckle scorched the lump trashing in his Adam apple eventually. The luminous glossiness his smoky quartz moons recklessly thrusted frequently against his jet-black pupils, manipulated the barbarously patent pattern of the alcohol's curse physically tinting its obvious symptoms.

In spite of the fact the divinely innocuous angels grew their golden wings of their true epitomes of sheer benevolence, unconditional love, and, last, but not least, trustworthy purity, besides perkily flapping them, absolutely cocksure of their orthodoxy exemplar they epidemically bedeviled the nobodies' real impressions and perspectives on the angels; their darker sides vividly saturated what kind of demons they concealed out of the celestial stage's panorama. Every one of a kind angel had struggled to prevail, or conceal their inevitable demons ushering the symptoms of their cryptically erratic vices to headstrongly haunt them down in the moments, where their masks of benevolent holiness sloppily fell from their starkly godlike complexions.

In the meantime, you managed to wrench your E/C roundish minerals shut as your virginally pixie-like fingers to cover your eyesight, in case, if you weren't following docilely his instructions at all. A childishly mirthful, cheesily wide grin hysterically sprawled upon your naturally rosy-coloured, angelically cordate lips and scarcely oppressing the efficiently villainous giggle teasing your feminine Adam apple to heavily pervade the thin air's grandiose space you and the former pious clergyman exchanged each other. Little did you know what might be behind the scenes of your closed minerals and its passionately cryptic absorption of your childlike inquisitiveness vehemently vandalizing the impending dose of eye-openers stomping on you like a crudely sturdy titan's shoed-clad feet pelting you down to squash your weightless frail skeleton compared to the much taller, bigger supernatural creature.

"I closed them, Tim! You don't have to repeat that a lot."

"Good girl!" The haphazardness of the former devotional member of the clergy fashioned into his balled marbled mammoth hand the simply miniature scarlet velvet box, while manipulating to lull his wet, berry-coloured tongue to lick his upper and lower wine-stained lips emphatically hysteric. His guileless inquisitiveness eagerly whirled its series of dream scenarios in his tornado of thoughts. The sweet purr of his heartwarming caution tingled angelic anthems in your flexible ears whilst meowing a desperately healthy, fiendish titter scorching your tongue tip. Sometimes the alcohol's consumption elicited the emotions' savage impulse articulating its frankly mighty saga of the incredulously feisty chuckles and light-hearted chaffs to reside the very walls of the site of the drunken warriors. "Since your friends won't be part of your isolated island survival, I am firmly guessing who is going to be part of your company."

"You are far cry from dumb to not know the correct answer."

"Do I really need to guess it?" When the British aristocrat pushed gingerly the second drawer of the furniture, readjusting its default position, throughout his forthcoming destination to approach you as you were leisurely reclining, dawdling your digits and fingertips clung to your tender eyelids' muscles as if you were an ominously bubbly child, playing hide and seek with its small circle of close friends, and counting to the certain number until it was high time to survey the sites all alone like an eager adventurer. Even the brightest surprises out of the blue were the most inescapably intoxicating presents each individual had been awarded. No matter the vibrantly sunny optimism or the repellently unimaginable pessimism clouding the individual's vortex of thoughts about their eventual anticipation, every outstandingly majestic miracle was resuscitating the seraphic nirvana and victorious pride cocooning conveniently the very conscience and frail heart.

"It is up to you."

"You don't need to be that bashful to not give a single try."

"Oh, okay!" The suddenness of your brittle lungs' arduously obdurate elaboration of surging its refreshing oxygen to rocket freely through your delicate nose, thus escorted modestly your facial expression of knitting your eyebrows to the bridge of your nose. "I believe there is only one person I would bring with myself on an isolated island."

"Is it-" At the moment, the former aspiring Monsignor hunkered down past your reclined figure and manifested to examine you in a studious scrutiny, whereas his warm coffee brown optics scanned you from head to foot lastly. Catching every ounce of remarkably unique glimpse of the prospect spine-chillingly bewitched him, squiring the unspeakable morello pigment mischievously teasing your well-sculptured cheeks, subsequently you formatted a duet of ethereally timeless drapery of venomously joyous chuckles dripping from your oral slits.

"Can I open my eyes so that to see finally who is going to be part of my company for the stay on a desolated island?" Meantime, you registered to unbuckle your femininely dainty hands from your façade and flicked up your E/C rotund crystals spearing the vista of Timothy's virginally creamy, alabaster fingers buckling the miniature velvet scarlet box and opening it in front of you until the sensationally brilliant glint of the lilliputian heart-shaped zircon ring scintillatingly perforating your ogle. Now, crystalline salty twin fat tears foamed your lower eyelids like translucently luminous lapis lazulis' beads ornamenting your youthful complexion. It wasn't even a hoax. It wasn't an ordinary April Fools' Day mockery. It was something else. It was ineffably poetic and profoundly breathtaking in its real epitome of the mind-boggling wildfire overwhelming your blizzard of thoughts along your emotions and feelings. "Don't tell me I'm particularly dreaming!" Whimpering a desperately overwhelmed sob breaking your exquisite facial attributes, thereafter, the luxuriously fat cataracts of tears gushed down your cheeks and mirrored your painful incredulity towards the marriage proposal. "This ring is too beautiful to be the chosen one for such a wretched human being like me!"

"It's not a real tragedy, sweetheart! That is the perfect, the most stunning ring I have ever bought and it is only suitable for your spidery ring finger." Struggling to bedaub gingerly with your fingertips to barrage the sorely salty tears' deft disappearance in the ebony limbo, Timothy manifested his solely free hand's orthodoxy long, slim fingers to trace gently the very curve of your extraordinary jaw's bone structure. "Never and ever repeat those fugly words that have nothing to do with your unique persona! You are the most beautiful and the most wonderful woman I have ever met in my entire life."

"D-Do you truly mean this?" Muffling with the palm of your petite, dainty hand the dryly gruff cough fanning gently the tender flesh, thus the ethereally eternal blinks of your bijous excreted the thin rivulets of crystal tears, staining relentlessly with its murderous dew your lower eyelids and saturating your eyeballs in the most ruby hue at last. Your hearts skipped a beat.

"Yes, my rare bird! Y/N L/N, the most ideal princess that had ever conquered my heart, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on," Opulence of fluctuating stammers sloppily slithered across Timothy's lower plumpish lip, while managing to incline mirthfully an eyebrow and channelizing his brittle fingertips to trace authentically delicate your cheekbone's swan curve eventually. "The most marvelous miracle that had ever brightened my life and being the shiniest star in my starless world as I can't thank you enough for your tremendous help, when I was ruefully troubled with the demon inside me and giving me a temporal shelter. I just can't thank you enough." Oddly, the luxurious crystal waterfall of twin chubby tears no longer descended freely your face and arduously buffing an angelically broad, tearful smile softening your facial features at the kindheartedly candid monologue of the former ambitious Monsignor. The velvety northern lilt punctured the detrimentally fatalistic sandstorm of conveying its friendly reminder to be all ears, besides pearly molting in each dearly etched vowel and syllable. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes, darling!" Then you flumped in his promisingly inviting, protective grip as he dangled his masculinely megawatt, muscly arms circa your waist and upper back, whilst abrading its concrete stable eye contact's tension impaling one another's ogles. The subconscious toss of your arms to brace his muscly broad shoulders poised your frail skeleton in his grasp, accompanying its unevenly inexorable groans and gasps. "More than anything, Tim! I'm truly happy for being part of my life and doing more for me even when it wasn't truly deserved."

"I love you more than anything, my rara avis!" Molting in the Eskimo kiss as your nose tips meagerly inched the humble distance you shared, consequently you pressed a solidly sultry kiss to your nude, lusciously brim lips and pinching shut your depths.

"I love you way more, Timothy!"

**✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝**

_✝_ ** Here is finally the new book cover of Hypodermic Transgression. It's unsure yet if it will be revamped again, nevertheless, I am immensely proud of polishing it exquisitely! What are your honest thoughts on the new book cover? ** _✝_

_✝ _ **Do you rather prefer the older one or otherwise the newer? ** _✝_

_✝ _ **What do you think we will look forward to Timothy and the female reader as a pairing? ** _✝_

_✝ _ **If you candidly enjoyed and liked this chapter, don't forget to drop your feedback with your brutally outspoken thoughts! I'd be immensely cheerful to hear your very thoughts! ** _✝_


	37. Lithium

**➳ ** _Don't grow up too fast_

_And don't embrace the past _ **➳**

\--- ******* \---

\--- _The Next Morning _\---

\--- _25th of December, 1964_ \---

Once the very wee hours of the morning after bled in the relentlessly deft daylight episode’s dawn, looming on the wintery grizzly horizon and accompanying the magnificently bountiful torrent of tiny alabaster snowflakes’ sweetly lenient dance in the thin air. The unforgettably unspeakable, vastly ferocious frigid gale starkly blew a kiss to the galore of surroundings, reckoning the rich diversity of torrent of ominously nude trees towering the countryside’s panorama like flock of preternaturally monumental titans formidably enclosing the former aspiring Monsignor’s two-story house. The daylight grizzly light pierced the windows’ amenable panes, altruistically kind stroking the naturally illuminated space in the rooms and banishing the sinisterly unwelcoming ebony darkness that has saturated the corners of the rooms, whilst despodentnly studious witnessing the dwellers’ daily life and absorbing their utterly utmost attention in the raw panorama.

The night before was remarked as one of the most siginificant days ever in your lives as two of kinds with their own outstandingly mystic purposes, dreams and hopes. Not only you celebrated the Christmas Eve’s day all alone behind the very walls of the two-story house in the promisingly inviting, doting snuggles on the couch in the living room, but also the pearly precious proposal that accompanied agitatedly the game you had decided to play, in addition to the alcohol taking a severe toll on both of you.

When the older gentleman came to his senses in the very hours of the morning and writhing his larger frame to release himself from the hypodermically balmy, promising snuggle you traded the last night by drifting off asleep on the couch instead hopping up in the king-sized bed upstairs, consequently the emphatic unfastening process of the doting grasp and the genuine epitome of lovingly reassuring sanctum you were swathed of a pair of masculinely strong, muscly arms, mildly simmered the subconsciously sheer frustration. Little did you know what time it was except the crude circumstance of the daylight episode’s dawn symptoms, which were far cry from arcane such as your widely shut eyelids preventing the scintillatingly dazzling silver light embrace your filtered prospect. The unnerving tick of the elapsing seconds into minutes, minutes into hours was ineludibly versatile process as well.

In order to not flee the living room with fiercely razor-edge pangs of conscience chasing him down on his mission to no longer populate the site’s corners, consequently the indubitably dreamless destination to upstairs to snatch a conveniently warm woolen quilt from his bedroom endured no more than a handful of minutes to bedaub his cozily slipper-clad feet against the floor. The sheer elaboration of the unremittingly restless whispers against the floor didn’t catch you off guard, whereas you managed to flip on the other side and dimly readjusting your sleeping posture eventually. The convenient softness of the sofa’s fabric carrying the weight of your petite frame didn’t fail to linger the hedonistic contentment, subconsciously channelizing to flood your tensely tender muscles to outweigh your haughty ambition to rise from the ashes, and mark the beginning of your daily routine’s dynamic roller coaster.

In a long minute of solitude and your slumber bled into a reckless beauty coma, authentically discrete soothing your very muscles and mind, thereafter, the British aristocrat hurled downstairs in the hair-raisingly obdurate process of tiptoeing to the imminent destination, while poising the comfy woolen amber quilt sprawled leniently on his broadly muscular shoulder blade as one of his mammoth hands’ pristinely long fingers dexterously balled the quilt’s edge. When he marched to the furniture and your senseless body, thereafter, he discarded the entity from his shoulder blade and maneuvered with his virginally potent, nimble fingers to sprawl gingerly the rigidly inviting fabric to blanket your shoulders and below. It felt like a heavenly genuine paradise to be pampered by nobody than the former devotional member of the clergy and to be under his care, swathing his flimsy heart in a gilded benevolence for sacrificing modicum of his time to award you with unavoidably wholehearted comfort.

An angelically heavenly, wide smile tugged at the corner of his naturally baby-pinkish, lusciously plumpish lips as his chocolate brown optics fixated on the prospect of his rare bird’s beauty coma. He deemed you as an untouchable angel. His only angel. His one of a kind treasure he pearly cherished every ounce of your very existence and presence tinting his eyesight as it was painted with the vividest brush.

“Sleep well, sweetheart!” The huskily alleviating honey-mouthed undertones of the former holy priest’s sweet coo plummet down inevitably the decibels of his whisper as his warm breath faintly fanned your earlobe, whilst leaning down and meagerly inching his freshly young-looking, healthily palish façade that maintained a modest distance with yours. Even though your insensate condition and the megawatt immobility of your very muscles to reciprocate to the British aristocrat’s affectionately feather ballad and his warm breathing diabolically teasing fiddling your tender flesh, the suddenness of a dexterously weak, sunshiny smile tweaked energetically at the corner of your motionless mouth didn’t startle the middle-aged man. “I will prepare the breakfast and the coffee, instead of fatiguing your very being with such petty tasks.” Seconds before hurling to the kitchen, therefore Timothy pressed an affectionately mellow, welcoming peck to your moderately warmish forehead as his pale-pinkish chapped lips resiliently hair-splitting scuffed the fleshy layer of your skull.

\--- ******* \---

\--- _An Hour Later or So_ \---

An hour later, the pitiful crop the time harvested to indicate its authentically majestic progress and dividing the daily episodes’ twilight, subsequently you endured the breakfast through the eternally restless, blunt discussions that partly interrupted your process of finishing your grilled sandwiches. The opulence of ruthlessly blunt meowed blatantly hedonistic slurps of the caffeine beverages and the meal purified the barefacedly minatory hush strangling the very walls of the kitchen and the luxurious format of your duo you traded with the former aspiring Monsignor to fuel the domestically cozy ambience, interpreted in the frequency of your conversations and your roars piercing the background’s stationariness.

The vengefully villainous, pungnent fragrance of freshly brewed coffee and burnt grilled sandwich transfused your tiny flexible nostrils enthrallingly as if a victoriously powerful sorcerer has casted a hex on one of his most amenable preys of his fantastically breathtaking magic.

Once you finished your essential meal, according to your daily routine, thus you approached the counter and be on your mission to diligently wash the aftermaths of the breakfast.

“Rara avis, you don’t have to do this!” Suddenly, the infirmness of the coffee-stained breathing fondly stroking your scalp, while molting in the everlastingly promising brace of the pair of masculinely muscular arms securing your middle, and your brittle dainty fingers of one of your hand worked on twisting the faucet on to reward the dry kitchen sink surface to be drenched with the ethereally restless cataract of jet water. Two mugs with brownish residues cocooned their very surfaces along bountiful layer of glossy greasiness-smeared-clad plates which once used to be to carry the weightless effigies of the refreshingly hot grilled sandwiches. A gloriously iron-willed smirk inexorably wide flourished on your roseate cherub lips, squinting up your E/C roundish moons at the rich medley of hot jet water splashing against the empty plates’ sticky veeners and the mugs. “You can do something else than-“

“Shu, shu, sweetie! I can take care of the leftovers of our breakfast.” Cutting him off politely as your strawberry-coloured, wet tongue crafted a low hum thrusting your rose-coloured mouth, whereas your spidery fingers crooked around the lathered sponge, the meliflous chant of your honey-mouthedly jubilant snickers teased your oral slits. The ultimate distraction from one of your eminent chores entirely emulated to a fiasco to delay your brief mission to wash the categorically soaked items in the kitchen sink. The genuine sentiment of a twain of big coffee brown moons lancing a troop of bullets searing your body especially the back of your skull’s anatomy, numbering your H/L mop of immaculately silken H/C locks plastered on your brainpan, bone-chillingly haunted you and yet bestowed you opulence of indulgence as you have always candidly appreciated your partner’s unconditional goodwill and his supernatural enchantment of your beauty and persona gathered together. “You are so obsessed with taking care of my chores instead of doing something more specific out there.”

“I am not always obsessed with taking care of your chores, Y/N!” Seconds before the lathered sponge to contact and ethereally timeless scrub the sinisterly hideous layers of greasiness and caffeine-stained sludge, meantime, you maneuvered your front pearly-white teeth to nibble your lower angelically cherubic lip at the woefully sarcastic timbre of your fiancé tingled alarming tones in your ears. A gingerly feather-soft peck buttoned the top of your brainpan categorically doting, while leashing tighter his mammoth strong hands pawing your middle as his virginally clumsy fingers fiddled the hem fabric of your sweater. “Don’t be silly what your train of thoughts is reciprocating to your illusions!”

“What illusions?” Manipulating your pristine spidery fingers to soap strong-willed the plates and the cups as a superabundant fountain of foam in the form of soap bubbles shrouded exquisitely the entities, the gentle brush of the older gentleman’s mouth to the nape of your neck as he leaned down to seal the humble gap of proximity of his oval profile and your swan expanse. Rolling your E/C depths at his woeful sarcasm, which didn’t fail to grace you with a healthily guttural, melodious snortles surging your oral slits and struggling your oral slit to elaborate the mindless groan, due to the sultry kiss lingering on the nape of your neck, whereas the former religious holy man’s snortle suffocated the monstrously steamy peck assaulting your throat. “Do you think there is something wrong with me?”

“No!” The hoarseness of Timothy’s encouragingly honeyed purr blasted series of paradoxal chills waltzing your spine until his kisses assaulting your neck didn’t escalate rabidly rapid, following the preternaturally unhallowed heart rate’s amplification and the heart pulses’ gruesomely unhinged thrashes in your ribcage. “You are perfect the way you are, my rare bird!”

“Your goodwill never fails to astonish me in every single way, Tim!” Cocking back your head at the intoxicatingly insatiable neck kisses sidetracking you from your plain chore, consequently you tossed carelessly the lathered sponge in the kitchen sink and drenched the plates, and the mugs fleetly by settling them comfortably to the other washed entities eventually. “Holy shit! You drive me to pure insanity.” Mewling unmercifully blatant your confession at the top of your lungs as the shallow breath hardly allowed you to catch your breath for a single second, the foggy breathless torrent fueled your lungs and suppressing your fragile lungs’ persistent function, whilst drenching your hands and turning the faucet off to halt the weightless cataract of jet water pelting down the very surface.

“Do you like it?”

“Definitely!” Shortly after wiping your hands in the rigid kitchen towel and balling it barbarically until you managed to toss it in the trash bin, thus you spun and reclined against the counter as your elbows poised your petite frame. The potent tension of your stubbornly stable eye contact’s maintenance abraded your twain of E/C adamants impaled his warm cinnamon brown as if a despondently helpless wild animal confronted one of his worst foes and spending their last moments of the resiliently silent duel of their tremendously intensifying eye contact in scanning one another’s façades before the call of arms’ final command to bark at them. The art of eye contact. The ineffably unspeakable tension monstrously magnetic reinforced your duo’s formation of your adamants perforating like hasty bullets. “Very much!” At the moment, one of his colossal veiny hands registered to reach for your refreshingly youthful complexion as a handful of fingers grappled your delicate chin to tilt your head, dawdling the bone-chillingly obdurate, everlasting ogles. Now, his other hand clawed your waist and you manifested to toss your satin arms to brace his muscular, megawatt upper back for extra support. In the meantime, your complexions meagerly inched, during the uniquely phenomenal ogles’ link. “Sweetheart, you are the handsomest man I have ever laid eyes on and the most kindhearted I have always had the chance to get to know.”

“I am more than honored to be the reason of your euphoria and to change your life neatly!” The haphazardness of his adroit motion to lace his virginally long, slim fingers through your fistful of H/C flawlessly lustrous locks blighted you to melt in his gentlemanly manners, and pearly treasuring how much he likes every discrete detail about your physique and frontage. A girlishly self-conscious giggle grinded on recalcitrant your wet tongue, whilst you struggled to abrade your blizzard of thoughts persistently neat. Meanwhile, Timothy channelized his front ivory teeth to nip his bottom deliciously plump lip. “You are actually the beauty there. I have never met much more open-minded and benevolent even unique woman than you.”

The sole response you could award the former pious member of the church was a meek bob of your head in strong agreement until you sealed your lips in a hardening steamy kiss and pinching widely shut your eyelids to molt solemnly in the authentically romantic moment. Series of bluntly childlike, hungry groans and moans bubbled from your shallow lungs as your fingers tenderly traced and toyed with the garment’s fabric, admiring its authenticity formatting its outstanding design and fabric. The arrantly arduous satisfaction of your digits and fingertips cradling the contoured muscules shrouded in cryptic attire didn’t cease to highlight his remarkable masculinity.

As soon as the kiss progressed in an unavoidably luscious, consequently the inescapable reconctre of the adroitly zealot berry-coloured tongues commenced poking each other, weighing off their headstrong domination until you managed to reach for his scalp to rake anxiously his short mop of silken chestnut strands between your fingers, and his tongue won its domination by plugging it inside your mouth and deepening the process into a French kiss. Unlike one of his hands, nevertheless, his other hand’s handily slim fingers twiddled softly your pelvis.

“Holy fuck, honey! That is so hot.”

“I have never done it ever before.” Then his pale-pinkish mouth slithered sloppily to your expanse to suckle bloodthirstily relentless the tender flesh between his teeth and peppering galore of promisingly inviting smooches. Breathy insecurity prominently sprawled his northern lilt, puncturing his reckless moan foaming his sharp jaw. “I don’t know if I am doing it well.” Stilling his sharp teeth to suckle the soft skin of your neck enforced you to cock back your head as you raked his chestnut hair yet.

“You don’t have to worry about this, because I am also in the same position. Why don’t we try?” At the moment, your folds were desperately drenched, conveying its friendly reminder to plead for his hard crotch to refill the patchy hollow as you have never been intimate with anybody else.

In a long minute of stripping off each other’s attires slowly but surely as the sheer freedom of peeling off the fabric from your fleshy anatomies, besides discarding the garments and accumulating its sufficient pile ghosting the tiled floor, throughout the process of wearing even a meager attire to hug your most intimate parts, the pure nudity was ultimately embracing one another’s vistas.

Positioning his hard member at your entrance as you have broadly spread your legs and dangling them circa his muscly hips for additional comfort, besides your dainty fingers delicately knitting the nape of his neck, his mammoth hands perched on your pelvis as you have scarcely readjusted your seating posture on the counter. Granting yourselves seconds before the initial phenomenal catharsis, thus the first solid thrusts emulated to a sore affliction, although the former devotional clergyman’s insisting attempts to not hurt you and subconsciously surveying in a scrutiny your whole physique to acknowledge the stark stoicism melding a severe pleasure that spotlighted your feminine facial attributes.

Within a handful of thrusts, miraculously, you accommodated to the versatile pace and the ineludibly heavy contraction of your vaginal walls wrapped his erected shaft, escorting gracefully the series of extremely humpbacked, monotonous groans and moans colliding with the very walls of the site.

“I love you very much to death, sweetheart!”

“I love you way more than you can imagine, my rara avis!” All of a sudden, Timothy manifested to buckle the modest distance your faces exchanged to engulf in a preternaturally endless, heartwarming kiss as you dragged your moderately trimmed fingernails to graze his muscly back downward. “You are brilliant.”

“You are way more fantastic. Trust me!” Within several thrusts, the climaxes were approaching anxiously until the middle-aged gentleman dumped his alabaster seed in your core and removed his erected member from your entrance instantaneously as your bare toes curled up at the sharply versatile motion, accompanying a soar lump seething wrathfully your feminine Adam apple and hardly inhaling beyond peacefully even modicum of the remaining oxygen.

** **

**✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝✝**

_✝_ **And lastly, here we go with the smut as I have solemnly promised in the later chapters, where the things are getting swelteringly exciting. **_✝_**  
**

_✝_ **What are your actual predictions for the impending chapters?** _✝_

_✝_ **Once the impending chapters air out, subsequently you will find out if your answers you are eagerly looking for are actually reciprocated.**_✝_

_✝_ **Don't forget, if you have truly enjoyed and liked the chapter to award it with your support, which is cordially appreciated such as a honest feedback of your impressions and thoughts poured even in one sentence!** _✝_


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